Miscellaneous  Library 
JAT  H.  BOUGHTON. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

VaLLIM   P,    V/REDEN 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/choiceworksofthoOOhood 


CONTENTS. 


MiMOIS 


EARLY  ESSAYS  AND  SKETCHES. 


Ode  to  Dr  Kitchener  •  •  • 

To  Hope       .        *  •  •  • 

The  Cook's  Oracle  •  •  • 

To  Celia       .        •  •  •  • 

Presentiment          •  •  •  • 

Mr    Martm's     Pictures  and  the 

Bonassus    .        •  •  •  •     19 

The  Two  Swans  .  .  .  .21 


PACK 
I 

2 

4 
14 
IS 


Ode  on    a  Distant    Prospect  of 

Clapham  Academy    .        •        •     27 
Address   to  Mr  Cross,  of   Exeter 

Change 30 

Elegy  on  David  Laing,  Esq.  .    33 

Stanzas  to  Tom  Woodgate    .         .     3$ 
A  Sentimental  Journey  from  Isling- 
ton to  Waterloo  Bridge     .         .    38 


ODES  AND  ADDRESSES  TO  GREAT  PEOPLE. 


Ode  to  Mr  Graham,  the  Aeronaut  49 
A  Friendly  Epistle   to  Mrs   Fry, 

in  Newgate  .  .  .  .55 
Ode  to  R.  Martin,  Esq.,  M.P.  .60 
Ode  to  the  Great  Unknown  .  .  62 
Ode  to  Joseph  Grimaldi,  Senior  .  68 
Ab  Address  to  the  Steam- Wash* 

ing  Company     .        .        .        <    72 


Letter     of    Remonstrance     firom 

Bridget  Jones  .  .  .  .74 
Ode  to  Captain  Parry  .  .  •77 
Address  to  Maria  Darlington,  on 

her  Return  to  the  Stage  .  .82 
Ode  to  W.  Kitchener,  M.D.  .    84 

Ode  to  H.  Bodkin,  Esq.       •        .    89 


WHIMS  AND  ODDITIES— (First  Series,  1826). 


Moral  Reflections  on  the  Cross  of 

St  Paul's 91 

The  Prayse  of  Ignorance  •  •93 
A  Valentine  .        .        •        •95 

Love  ....••  97 
"  Please  to  ring  the  Belle  *•  •  .  98 
A  Receipt — for  Civilisation  .  .  99 
On  the  Popular  Cupid  ...  104 
The  Last  Man      .        •        •       .  105 


The  Ballad  of  "  Sally  Brown  and 

Ben  the  Carpenter  "  .  .  .112 
Backing  the  Favourite  .  .  •  1*5 
A  Complaint  against  Greatness  .  I16 
The  Mermaid  of  Margate  .  .118 
My  Son,  Sir  ....   122 

*'  As  it  fell  upon  a  Day  "  .  .  123 
A  Fairy  Tale  .  .  •  .  124 
The  Spoiled  Child         .        .        .  I2f 


682705 


The  FaJ2  of  tlie  Deer  . 

December  and  May  • 

A  Winter  Nosegay  . 

Equestrian  Courtship  . 
"  She  is  far  from  the  Land ' 

Fancies  on  a  Teacup  , 

The  Stag-Eyed  Lady  , 

Walton  Redivivus  . 


CONTENTS. 

TACB 

rxct 

.    129 

"  Love  me,  Icve  my  Dog  "     . 

.  147 

.    131 

Remonstratory  Ode        .         . 

150 

.    131 

A  New  Life-Preserver  .        .        , 

154 

.    133 

A  Dream       .         .         .        • 

156 

.    134 

The  Irish  Schoolmaster         . 

.  161 

.    137 

The  Sea-Spell 

169 

.    139 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray     .        . 

.  174 

.    143 

Fancy  Portraits     .         ,        . 

176 

WHIMS  AND  ODDITIES— (Second  Series,  1827). 


Preface.        .        •        . 

.  180 

Bianca's  Dream     .        • 

.  182 

A  Ballad-Singer    .        . 

.  190 

Mary's  Ghost          .         • 

.  191 

The  Progress  of  Art      • 

.  193 

A  School  for  Adults      . 

.  196 

A  Legend  of  Navarre    , 

.  200 

The  Demon  Ship  .        . 

.  206 

Sally  Holt,  and  the  Death 

of  John 

Hayloft      . 

.  208 

A  True  Story 

.  211 

The  Decline  of  Mrs  Shakerly 

.  216 

Tim  Turpin  .         .        , 

• 

.  218 

The  Monkey  Martyr     . 

• 

.  222 

Banditti         .        .        • 

• 

.  225 

Death's  Ramble    .        . 

• 

.  227 

Cranio! ogy  .  .  ,  ,  .  229 
An  Affair  of  Honour  .  .  .  232 
A  Parthian  Glance  .  .  .  234 
A  Sailor's  Apology  for  Bow-legs  .  236 
"Nothing  but  Hearts".         .     '    .238 

Jack  Hall 240 

The  We«  Man  .  .  .  .  24S 
Pythagorean  Fancies  .  .  .  250 
"Don't  you  smell  Fire?"  .  .254 
The  Volunteer  ....  256 
A  Marriage  Procession.  ,  .  260 
The  Widow  .....  263 
A  Mad  Dog .  .  ,  ,  .  266 
John  Trot  .....  269 
An  Absentee .....  272 
Ode  to  the  Camelopard         .        .  275 


The  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies     ••••••.  278 

Hero  and  Leander    ...•••••••.  307 

Lycus  the  Centaur    ...•••••••.  329 

The  Two  Peacocks  op  Bedfont       ••       ••&••.  338 

MINOR  POEMS. 


A  Retrospective  Review 

r       .       .344 

The  Sea  of  Death.        . 

\        .356 

Fair  Ines 

.  346 

Ballad  .... 

.       .  357 

The  Departure  of  Sumi 

ner   .       .348 

I  remember,  I  remember 

.       .358 

Song  for  Music     . 

.       .       .  351 

Ballad 

.        .  359 

Ode  :  Autumn       . 

.       •       .  351 

The  Water  Lady  . 

.  360 

Ballad   . 

.       .       .  353 

The  Exile      .        .        .        < 

.  360 

Hymn  to  the  Sun . 

.       .  354 

To  an  Absentee    ,         .        , 

.361 

To  a  Cold  Beauty.        , 

.  354 

Song 

.361 

Autumn         .        .        < 

.       .        .  355 

Ode  to  the  Moon  .        .        , 

.  362 

Ruth     .        .       .       . 

.  t5<; 

To .        .        .        . 

•  364 

CONTENTS. 


The  Forsaken       •  •        •  • 

Autumn         .        .  •        •  . 

Ode  to  Melancholy  .        . 
Sonnet  on  Mrs  Nicely,  a  Pattern 

for  Housekeepers 

Sonnet   written  in  a  Volume  of 

Shakespeare      .  .        .  . 

Sonnet  to  Fancy  .  •       •  . 


fAGE 

366 

368 

369 
369 


Sonnet  to  an  Enthusiast 
Sonnet  ...  * 
Sonnet  .... 
Sonnet  on  receiving  a  Gift 
Sonnet  .... 
Sonnet  .         .        • 

Sonnet :  Silence   •        • 


rACB 

.  369 
370 
.  370 
.  370 
.  371 

•  371 

•  372 


CONTRIBUTIONS  TO  THE  GEM. 


A  "Widow  .  •  •  •  .373 
The  Farewell  ,  .  •  .374 
The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram        .  375 


On  a  Picture  of  Hero  and  Leander  380 
A  May-Day  .        •        •       •        .  380 


CREAM  OF  THE  COMIC  ANNUALS. 


The  Pugsley  Papers      . 

.  384 

Sonnet           .         .        . 

• 

•  458 

A  Letter  from  an  Emigrant 

•  395 

Epicurean    Reminiscences 

of 

a 

Sonnet  on  Steam  . 

.  398 

Sentimentalist    ,         . 

• 

.458 

A  Report  from  Below  . 

•  399 

Saint  Mark's  Eve           . 

. 

.  460 

The  Las,t  Shilling . 

.  402 

I'm  not  a  Single  Man    . 

. 

.  465 

Ode  to  M.  Brunei 

.  406 

A  Greenwich  Pensioner 

. 

.  469 

A  Flan  for  Writing  Blank  Verse 

The  Burning  of  the  Love-Letter 

.  470 

in  Rhyme 

. 

.  408 

The  Angler's  Farewell , 

. 

•  471 

A  Letter  from  a  Market-Gardener 

Sea-Song  after  Dibdin  . 

. 

.  473 

to  the  Secretary  of  the 

Horti- 

A  Singular  Exhibition  at  Somerset 

cultural  Society          . 

.  410 

House 

. 

.  474 

Domestic  Asides    . 

.  412 

The  Yeomanry 

, 

.  477 

The  Schoolmaster  Abroad 

.  413 

An  Unfavourable  Review 

, 

.  479 

Sketches  on  the  Road  . 

.  419 

I'm  going  to  Bombay    . 

, 

.  485 

John  Day      .         .         . 

.  422 

Ode  to  the  Advocates  for  the  Re 

- 

The  Parish  Revolution , 

.  425 

raoval  of  Smithfield  Market 

.  488 

The  Furlough        .         . 

.  434 

Drawn  for  a  Soldier 

.  492 

Number  One          .         . 

.  436 

Ode  for  St  Cecilia's  Eve 

•  494 

The  Drowning  Ducks   . 

.438 

Reflections  on  Water    . 

.  499 

An    Assent    to    the    Summut 

of 

A  Blow-up    .         .        • 

.  502 

Mount  Blank     .         . 

.  441 

The  Wooden  Leg          , 

.  507 

A  Horse-Dealer    .        . 

.  444 

The  Ghost     . 

.  509 

The  Fall 

.  446 

Ode  to  Madame  Hengler 

.  5" 

The  Illuminati       .        • 

.  448 

Rhyme  and  Reason       . 

.  514 

Conveyancing         .         , 

•  453 

The  Double  Knock       . 

.  5^5 

A  Letter  from  a  Settler  for  Life 

in 

A  Fox-Hunter       .         • 

•  516 

Van  Diemen's  Land  . 

. 

.  455 

Bailey  Ballads       .        . 

.  518 

tiii 


CONTENTS, 


Letter   from   a   Parish   Clerk   in 
Barbadoes  to  one  in  Hampshire  523 

526 
530 
533 
536 
539 
540 
543 
549 
550 
554 
556 
561 
564 

567 
570 
573 
577 
bone  580 

583 


Our  Village  .        .        . 
The  Scrape- Book . 
A  True  Story        .        , 
The  Sorrows  of  an  Un'dertaker 
The  Carelesse  Nurse-Mayd 
The  Life  of  Zimmermann 
The  Compass,  with  Variations 
The  Duel      . 
Ode  to  Mr  Malthus 
A  Good  Direction         . 
The  Pleasures  of  Sporting 
There's  no  Romance  in  that 
The  Abstraction   .        . 
Miller  Redivivus   .        • 
A  Zoological  Report     • 
Shooting  Pains      ,         • 
The  Boy  at  the  Nore    . 
Great  Earthquake  at  Mary-le 
Ode  to  St  Swithin 
The  Apparition     .         . 
The  Schoolmaster's  Motto 
A  Blind  Man 
The  Supper  Superstition 
A  Snake- Snack     .        . 
A  Storm  at  Hastings    . 
Lines  to  a  Lady  on  her  Departure 
for  India  •       •       •       •       . 


586 
589 
591 
592 
594 
596 

603 


Sonnet  to  a  Scotch  Girl  washing 

Linen  .  .  .  .  .  60$ 
Sonnet  to  a  Decayed  Seaman  .  606 
Huggins  and  Duggins  .  .  .  607 
Domestic  Didactics  .  .  .  6i(l 
The  Broken  Dish  .         .        .611 

Ode  to  Peace  ....  6l3 
A  Few  Lines  on  completing  Forty- 
Seven  .....  613 
To  Mary  Housemaid  .  .  .  613 
Pain  in  a  Pleasure-Boat  .  .  614 
A  Spent  Ball  .  .  .  .618 
Literary  and  Literal  .  .  .619 
Sonnet   to   Lord   Wharncliffe,   on 

his  Game-Bill  ....  624 
The  Undying  One  .  .  .  625 
Cockle  V.  Cackle  ....  626 
Letter  from  an  Old  Sportsman  .  630 
The  Sub-Marine   ....  634 

The  Island 635 

The  Kangaroos  :  a  Fable  .  .  639 
Ode  for  the  Ninth  of  November   .641 

Rondeau 645 

London  Fashions  for  November  .  646 
Symptoms  of  Ossification  .  .  647 
Some  Account  of  William  Whiston  648 
Lines  to  a  Friend  at  Cobham  .  650 
To  a  Bad  Rider  .  .  .  .651 
My  Son  and  Heir         •       •       .  652 


NATIONAL  TALES. 


Preface  \  \  ^  ,  .655 
The  Spanish  Tragedy  ...  656 
The  Miracle  of  the  Holy  Hermit  .  677 
The  Widow  of  Galicia  .  .  .680 
The  Golden  Cup  and  Dish  of  Silver  683 
1  he  Tragedy  of  Seville  .         .  685 

The  Lady  in  Love  with  Romance  689 
The  Eighth  Sleeper  of  Ephesus  .  692 
Madeline  .....  694 
Masetto  and  his  Mare  ...  698 
The  Story  of  Michel  Argenti  .701 
The  Three  Jewels  .        •        .  704 

Geronimo  and  Ghisola  .        .        .  707 


The  Fall  of  the  Leaf    . 

.710 

Baranga         .         •         • 

.  713 

The  Exile      .        .        • 

.  716 

The  Owl 

.  720 

The  German  Knight      . 

.  722 

The  Florentine  Kinsmen 

.  72b 

The  Carrier's  Wife 

.  729 

The  Two  Faithful  Lovers  of  Sicily  733 
The  Venetian  Countess  .  .  738 
A  Tale  of  the  Harem  .  .  .  746 
The  Chestnut  Tree  .  .  .756 
The  Fair  Maid  of  Ludgate    .  762 

The  Three  Brothers      ...  7^9 


MEMOIR   OF  THOMAS   HOOD. 


'T'HOMAS  HOOD  was  bom  on  the  23d  May  1799,  in  th« 
Poultry,  at  the  house  of  his  father,  a  partner  in  the  firm  of 
Vemor  &  Hood,  booksellers  and  publishers.  His  mother  was 
a  Miss  Sands,  sister  to  the  engraver  of  that  name,  to  whom  the 
subject  of  our  memoir  was  afterwards  articled. 

The  family  consisted  of  two  sons,  James  and  Thomas ;  and  of 
four  daughters,  Elizabeth,  Anne,  Jessie,  and  Catherine. 

Hood's  father  was  a  man  of  cultivated  taste  and  literary 
inclinations,  and  was  the  author  of  two  novels  which  attained 
some  popularity  in  their  day,  although  now  their  very  names  are 
forgotten. 

Thomas  Hood  was  sent  to  a  school  in  Tokenhouse  Yard  in 
the  City,  as  a  day-boarder.  The  two  maiden  sisters  who  kept  the 
school,  and  with  whom  Hood  took  his  dinner,  bore  the  odd  name 
of  Hogsflesh,  and  they  had  a  sensitive  brother,  who  was  always 
addressed  as  Mr  H.,  and  who  afterwards  became  the  prototype  of 
Charles  Lamb's  unsuccessful  farce. 

After  the  death  of  his  father  and  his  elder  brother  in  181 1,  he 
was  apprenticed  to  his  uncle,  Mr  Robert  Sands,  the  engraver,  and 
plied  the  burin  for  some  years  under  his  guidance.  He  thus 
learnt  something  of  the  art  which  he  practised  with  such  pleasant 
results  in  after-years  in  producing  grotesque  illustrations  to  his 
own  verses  and  sketches.  This  sedentary  employment  not  agree- 
ing with  his  health,  he  was  sent  for  change  to  some  relations  at 
Dundee.  He  remained  in  Scotland  for  a  considerable  time,  and 
made  his  first  appearance  in  print  there  in   18 14,  first  in  th« 


S  MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  HOOD. 

Dundee  Advertiser,  then  edited  by  Mr  Rintoul,  and  subsequently 
in  the  Dundee  Magazine.  These  early  effusions  we  have  not  suc- 
ceeded in  procuring,  owing  to  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  access 
to  local  periodical  publications,  or  we  should  have  gratified  the 
reader's  curiosity  by  reprinting  them. 

On  his  return  to  London,  after  practising  for  a  short  time  as 
an  engraver,  and  doing  some  fruitless  desk-work  in  a  merchant's 
office,  an  opening  that  offered  more  congenial  employment  pre- 
sented itself  at  last,  when  he  was  about  twenty- two  years  of  age. 
In  1 82 1,  Mr  John  Scott,  the  editor  of  the  London  Magazine,  was 
killed  in  a  duel.  The  magazine  passed  into  the  hands  of  Messrs 
Taylor  &  Hessey,  who  were  friends  of  Hood's,  and  he  was  offered 
and  accepted  the  sub-editorship.  His  first  original  paper  ap 
peared  in  the  number  for  July  182 1,  and  he  continued  to  con 
tribute  till  the  summer  of  1823. 

Hood's  connexion  with  the  London  Magazine  was  the  means 
of  bringing  him  into  contact  with  many  of  the  chief  wits  and 
literati  of  the  time,  and  more  especially  with  Charles  Lamb, 
whose  influence  over  his  style  and  manner  of  writing  is  very 
clearly  traceable.  All  these  literary  friendships  have  been  delight- 
fully described  in  his  own  "  Reminiscences." 

One  of  the  contributors  to  the  London  Magazine  was  John 
Hamilton  Reynolds,  author  of  an  exquisite  little  volume  of  verse 
entitled  "  The  Garden  of  Florence,"  whose  articles  appeared 
under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Edward  Herbert."  The  acquaintance 
thus  begun  had  lasting  results.  On  the  5th  May  1824,  Hood  was 
married  to  Reynolds's  sister,  Jane.  In  the  following  year  (1825)  he 
produced  conjointly  with  his  brother-in-law  his  first  publica,tion 
in  a  separate  form,  viz.,  "  Odes  and  Addresses  to  Great  People." 
This  little  volume  rapidly  passed  through  three  editions,  and  made 
almost  as  great  a  stir  as  the  "  Rejected  Addresses  "  of  James  and 
Horace  Smith.  A  copy  of  the  first  edition,  marked  by  Hood  him- 
self,  and  now  in  the  possession  of  the  present  publishers,  thus 
apportions  the  respective  authorship  of  the  pieces  it  contains  : — 


MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  HOOD. 


Ode  to  Mr  Graham     .            • 

.    T.  H. 

Ode  to  Mr  M'Adam    .            «            i 

,    J.  H.  Reynold!, 

Epistle  to  Mrs  Fry      .            • 

.    T.  H. 

Ode  to  Richard  Martin            « 

,           .    T.  H. 

Ode  to  the  Great  Unknown    •            « 

,            .     T.  H. 

To  Mr  Dymoke          .            •            < 

.    J.  H.R. 

To  Grimaldi    .            .            •            « 

.    T.  H. 

To  Sylvanus  Urban    .             .            • 

.    J.  H.R. 

To  the  Steam-Washing  Company 

.    T.  H. 

To  Captain  Parry        •            •            i 

,    T.  11. 

To  EUiston     .            .            .            , 

.    J.  H.R. 

To  Maria  Darlington .             ;            < 

,             ,     Joint. 

To  Dr  Kitchener         .            •            « 

,     T.  H. 

To  the  Dean  and  Chapter       .            « 

.    J.  H.R. 

To  H.  Bodkin,  Esq.   .            .            , 

.    Joint. 

In  the  present  edition  we  have  not  thought  it  necessary  ol 
desirable  to  include  those  pieces  in  the  above  list  which  are 
assigned  entirely  to  Reynolds's  authorship. 

It  was  in  the  two  series  of  "  Whims  and  Oddities,"  *  however, 
published  in  1826  and  1827,  and  illustrated  by  his  own  pencil, 
that  Hood  first  hit  on  the  pecuhar  vein  of  humour  by  which  he 
afterwards  became  most  famous.  These  twin  volumes  obtained  an 
immediate  and  decisive  success,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said 
of  the  volume  of  serious  poems,  "  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies," 
and  of  the  two  volumes  of  "  National  Tales,"  which  followed  them 
in  rapid  succession  in  1827.  And  yet  there  is  an  indefinable 
grace  and  charm  about  the  graver  productions  of  Hood's  muse, 
and  a  picturesque  and  sometimes  weird  atmosphere  of  romance 
and  imagination  about  the  prose  stories,  that  have  won  the 
suffrages  of  many  later  readers,  and  that  made  it  seem  proper  to 
reproduce  them  here  as  representative  of  one  important  side  of 
Hood's  genius,  though  not  the  comic  or  more  popular  side. 

His  "Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,"  first  printed  in  an  annual 
entitled  "  The  Gem,"  which  Hood  edited  in  1829,  is  represen- 
tative of  another  class  of  serious  poems  in  which  he  excelled — 

*  The  title  of  this  work  was  probably  suggested  by  a  line  in  Mr  Hookham 
Frere's  poem  of  "  The  Monks  and  the  Giants,"  published  some  years  previously. 


«fi  MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  HOOD, 

•*  those  which  consist  in  the  vivid  imagination  and  abrupt  lyric 
representation  of  ghastly  situations  in  physical  nature  and  in 
human  life."* 

In  this  year  Hood  left  London  for  Winchmore  Hill,  where  he 
took  a  very  pretty  cottage  situated  in  a  pleasant  garden.  Here 
the  WhIq  jeu  d' esprit  oi  "The  Epping  Hunt"t  was  written  and 
published  as  a  small  pamphlet  in  1829  (passing  into  a  second 
edition  in  1830),  with  six  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank. 

At  Winchmore  Hill  also  his  son  was  born  in  1830.  In  this 
year  Hood  commenced  his  Christmas  serial  entitled  "  The  Comic 
Annual,"  which  enjoyed  a  long  run  of  public  favour,  and  con- 
tinued to  be  published  every  winter,  without  intermission,  until 
1839,  when  it  was  discontinued;  but  resumed  for  one  year  only 
in  1842,  when  the  eleventh  and  last  volume  appeared.  In  1830 
Hood  also  published  a  series  of  "  Comic  Melodies,"  which  con- 
sisted of  songs  written  for  the  entertainments  of  Mathews  and 
Yates.     The  motto  on  the  cover  of  each  number  was 

*'  A  doleful  song  a  doleful  look  retraces, 
And  merry  music  maketh  merry  faces." 

Over  this  was  a  comic  illustration  of  the  lines,  consisting  of  some 
musical  notes,  the  heads  of  which  were  filled  in  with  laughing  and 
grimacing  countenances. 

About  this  period  Hood  was  on  several  occasions  induced 
to  attempt  dramatic  composition  for  the  stage.  He  wrote  the 
libretto  for  a  little  English  opera,  brought  out,  it  is  believed,  at  the 
Surrey  Theatre.  Its  name  is  lost  now,  although  it  had  a  good 
run  at  the  time.  Perhaps  it  may  be  recognised  by  some  old  play- 
goer by  the  fact  that  its  drat/iatis  person(Z  were  all  bees.  He  also 
assisted  his  brother-in-law  (Reynolds)  in  the  dramatising  of  "  Gil 

*  Professor  Masson  in  MacmUlatCs  Magazine,  IL  328  (August  i860),  art. 
Thomas  Hood. 

+  A  companion  volume  to  this,  to  be  entitled  "  Epsom  Races,"  was  announced 
in  characteristic  phrase  on  the  back  of  the  cover,  but  apparently  the  design 
was  abandoned,  as  we  cannot  dii>cover  that  such  a  pamphlet  ever  appeared. 


MEMOIR  OP  THOMAS  HOOD.  xifl 

Bias,*  produced  at  Drury  Lane.  For  Mr  Frederick  Yates  of 
the  Old  Adelphi  Theatre  he  wrote  a  little  entertainment  entitled 
"  Harlequin  and  Mr  Jenkins ;  or,  Pantomime  in  the  Parlour,"  * 
and  for  other  theatres  two  farces,  entitled  "York  and  Lan- 
caster ;  or,  a  School  without  Scholars,"  and  "  Lost  and  Found." 
He  likewise  supplied  the  text  of  an  entertainment  called  "  The 
Spring  Meeting,"  for  Charles  Mathews  the  elder. 

In  1832  Hood  left  Winchmore  Hill,  and  became  the  occupier 
of  a  house,  called  Lake  House,  at  Wanstead  in  Essex.  Here  he 
wrote  the  novel  of  "  Tylney  Hall,"  which  was  published  in  the 
usual  three-volume  form  in  1834. 

It  should  be  mentioned  that  during  these  years  Hood  was  also 
a  large  contributor  to  the  fashionable  Annuals  of  the  time,  "The 
Forget  Me  Not,"  "The  Souvenir,"  "Friendship's  0£fering,"  &c., 
and  to  the  Literary  Gazette  and  the  Athencetitn, 

In  1835  the  failure  of  a  publishing  firm  having  involved  Hood 
in  pecuniary  difficulties,  he  resolved  to  leave  England  and  live 
on  the  Continent.  Going  over  in  March  of  that  year,  he  fixed 
on  Coblenz  on  the  Rhine  as  the  most  suitable  for  his  purpose. 
During  about  two  years  that  place  continued  to  be  the  head- 
quarters of  the  family.  In  the  middle  of  1837  he  removed  to 
Ostend.  From  this  prolonged  exile,  which  extended  on  to  1840, 
arose  the  volume  published  in  that  year  and  entitled  "  Up  the 
Rhine,"  a  work  written  in  a  series  of  letters,  avowedly  after  the 
model  of  "  Humphrey  Clinker." 

After  five  years  of  expatriation,  Hood  returned  to  England  and 
took  a  nouse  at  Camberwell.  He  became  a  contributor  to  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine,  then  edited  by  Theodore  Hook,  upon 
whose  death  in  the  following  year  (1841),  he  himself  succeeded 
to  the  editorship,  and  continued  in  that  office  until  1S43,  con- 
tributing to  its  pages  a  number  of  sketches  and  verses,  which  ha 
republished  in  two  volumes  in  1844,  with  illustrations  by  John 
Leech,  under  the  title  of  "Whimsicalities."  In  1842  he  had 
*  Printed  in  Duncorabe's  edition  of  "  Mathews  and  Yates  at  Home." 


iiv  MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  HOOD. 

removed  to  St  John's  Wood,  where  he  continued  to  reside  till  hii 
death,  first  in  Elm  Tree  Road,  and  then  in  Finch  ley  Road. 

In  the  Christmas  number  of  Punch  for  1843  appeared  the 
famous  "  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  together  with  a  less-known  piece, 
"The  Pauper's  Christmas  Carol."  There  are  several  other 
articles,  poems,  and  cuts  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of  Punch 
presumably  by  Hood. 

On  New  Year's  day  1844  was  started  Hood's  Monthly  Magazine 
and  Comic  Misce/Iany,  with  a  very  promising  staff"  of  contributors. 

Meanwhile  Hood's  health  had  been  gradually  failing.  Even 
during  his  sojourn  on  the  Continent  alarming  symptoms  had 
manifested  themselves,  and  since  his  return  to  England,  matters 
had  gradually  grown  worse  and  worse.  After  some  years  of 
suffering  and  pain,  all  hope  was  at  last  given  up.  One  night  in  a 
delirious  wandering  he  was  heard  to  repeat  to  his  wife  Jane  the 
lovely  words  of  the  Scottish  song — 

"I'm  fading  awa',  Jean, 
Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  Jean! 
I'm  fading  awa',  Jean, 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal ! 
But  weep  na,  my  ain  Jean, 
The  world's  care's  in  vain,  Jean, 
We'll  meec  and  aye  be  fain,  Jean, 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal  1 " 

An  offer  of  a  pension  from  Government  of  ;2^ioo  a  year,  to  be 
conferred  on  his  wife,  as  his  own  Hfe  was  so  precarious,  came 
through  Sir  Robert  Peel  in  the  latter  part  of  1844,  but  the  grant 
was  to  take  effect  from  the  previous  June.  Sir  Robert  Peel  did 
this  welcome  and  friendly  action  in  the  most  courteous  and 
generous  way,  accompanying  it  with  a  letter  in  which  he  begged 
for  one  return — the  opportunity  of  making  Hood's  personal 
acquaintance.  The  meeting,  however,  never  took  place,  for  Hood 
grew  too  ill  to  allow  of  its  possibility,  being  only  kept  alive  by 
frequent  instalments  of  mulled  port-wine.  He  wrote  to  his 
benefactor    to   this   effect,   and    Sir   Robert   Peel   replied   in  a 


MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  HOOD.  « 

beautiful  and  touching  letter,  earnestly  hoping  for  his  recovery. 
There  are  few  more  beautiful  traits  in  the  great  statesman's 
character,  and  few  stories  more  honourable  to  him,  than  this  of 
his  kindness  to  poor  Hood  during  the  last  sad  months  of  supreme 
suffering.  He  could  die  at  least  with  the  assurance  that  those 
nearest  and  dearest  to  him  would  not  be  reduced  to  beggary. 

The  end  grew  nearer  and  nearer.  Some  weeks  ensued  of 
protracted  anguish,  of  almost  indescribable  suffering,  and  of  con- 
vulsive efforts  to  hold  life  yet  a  little  longer.  At  last,  on  the  3d 
May  1845,  after  two  days'  total  unconsciousness,  he  breathed  his 
last,  having  scarcely  attained  the  age  of  forty-six.  He  was  buried 
in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery,  and  eighteen  months  afterwards  his 
fiaithful  and  devoted  wife  was  laki  by  his  side. 

R.  H.  & 


THOMAS    HOO  D'S 
CHOICE    WORKS. 


EARLY    ESSAYS    AND 
SKETCHES. 

ODE  TO  DR  KITCHENER* 

Ye  Muses  nine  inspire 

And  stir  up  my  poetic  fire  ; 

Teach  my  burning  soul  to  speak 

With  a  bubble  and  a  squeak  ! 
Of  Dr  Kitchener  I  fain  would  sing, 
Till  pots,  and  pans,  and  mighty  kettles  rin^ 

O  culinary  sage  ! 

(I  do  not  mean  the  herb  in  use. 

That  always  goes  along  with  goose) 
How  have  I  feasted  on  thy  page  : 
"  When  like  a  lobster  boil'd  the  mom 
From  black  to  red  began  to  turn," 

Till  midnight,  when  I  went  to  bed, 

And  clapt  my  tewah-diddie  t  on  my  head* 

Who  is  there  cannot  tell. 

Thou  lead'st  a  life  of  living  well? 

**  What  baron,  or  squire,  or  knight  of  the  sUn 

Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  Fry — er?" 

In  doing  well  thou  must  be  reckon'd 

The  first, — and  Mrs  Fry  the  second  ; 

And  twice  a  Job, — for,  in  thy  feverish  toils, 

Thou  wast  all  over  roasts — as  well  as  boils. 

Thou  wast  indeea  no  aunce, 

To  treat  thy  subjects  and  thyself  at  onot  r 

Many  a  hungry  poet  eats 

His  brains  like  thee. 

But  few  there  be 
Could  live  so  long  on  their  receipt*. 

•  Lou-Ion  Magazine,  November  182X. 

♦  The  Doctor's  composition  for  a  nightcap. 


TO  HOPE. 

What  living  soul  or  sinner. 

Would  slight  thy  invitation  to  a  dinnar. 
Ought  with  the  Danaids  to  dwell, 

Draw  gravy  in  a  cullender,  and  hear 

For  ever  in  his  ear 
The  plea,s;mt  tinkling  of  thy  dinner  belL 

Immortal  Kitchener  !  thy  f  ime 

Shall  keep  itself  when  Time  makes  game 
Of  other  m.en's — yea,  it  shall  keep,  all  weathers, 
And  thou  shalt  be  upheld  by  thv  pen  feathers. 
Vea,  by  the  sauce  of  Michael  Kelly, 

Thy  name  shall  parish  never, 

But  be  magnified  for  ever — 
—By  all  whose  eyes  are  bigger  than  their  belljr. 

Yea,  till  the  world  is  done — 
—To  a  turn — and  Time  imts  out  the  sun, 
Shall  live  the  endless  echo  of  thy  name. 
But,  as  for  thy  more  fleshy  frame, 

Ah  !  Death's  carnivorous  teeth  will  tittle 
Thee  out  of  breath,  and  eat  it  for  cold  viotuaI| 
But  still  thy  fame  shall  be  among  the  nati  ns 
Preserved  to  the  last  course  of  generations. 

Ah  me,  my  soul  is  touch'd  with  sorrow 

To  think  how  flesh  must  pass  away— 

So  mutton,  that  is  warm  to-day, 
Is  cold,  and  turn'd  to  hashes  on  the  morro'v  I 

Farewell !   I  would  say  more,  but  I 

Have  other  fish  to  fry. 

TO  HOPE* 

Oh  !  take,  young  seraph,  take  thy  harp, 

And  play  to  me  so  cheerily  ; 
For  grief  is  dark,  and  care  is  sharp, 

And  life  wears  on  so  wearily. 
Oh  !  take  thy  harp  ! 
Oh  !  sing  as  tiiou  wert  wont  to  do. 

When,  all  youth's  sunny  season  long, 

I  sat  and  listen'd  to  thy  song, 
And  yet  'twas  ever,  ever  new, 
With  magic  in  its  heaven-tuned  strings* 

The  future  bliss  thy  constant  theme. 
Oh  !  then  each  little  woe  took  wing 

Away,  like  phantoms  of  a  dreana. 
As  if  each  sound 
That  flutter'd  round 

Had  floated  over  Lethe's  stream  I 

•  London  Magazine,  July  1S21. 


TO  HOPE. 

By  all  those  bright  and  happy  hours 

We  spent  iu  hfe's  sweet  eastern  bowers, 

Where  thou  wouldst  sit  and  smile,  and  show 

Ere  buds  were  come,  where  flowers  would  blow, 

And  oft  anticipate  the  rise 

Of  life's  warm  sun  that  scaled  the  skies  J 

By  many  a  story  of  love  and  glory, 

And  friendships  promised  oft  to  me; 

By  all  the  faith  I  Lnt  to  thee, — 

Oh  !  take,  young  seraph,  take  thy  harp, 

And  play  to  me  so  cheerily  ; 
For  grief  is  dark,  and  care  is  sharp, 

And  life  wears  on  so  wearily. 
Oh  1  take  thy  harp  ! 

Perchance  the  strings  will  sound  less  clear, 

That  long  h  ive  l.nn  neglected  by 
In  sorrow's  misty  atmosphere  ; 
It  ne'er  may  speak  as  it  hath  spoken 

Such  joyous  notes  so  brisk  and  high  ; 
But  are  its  golden  chords  all  broken  ? 
Are  there  not  some,  thoui^h  weak  and  low. 
To  play  a  lullaby  to  woe  ? 

But  thou  canst  sing  of  love  no  more, 

For  Celia  show'd  that  dream  was  vain  ; 
And  many  a  fancied  bliss  is  o'er. 

That  Comes  not  e'en  in  dreams  again* 
Alas  !  alas ! 
How  pleasures  pass, 
And  leave  thee  now  no  subject,  save 
The  peace  and  bliss  oeyond  the  i^rave! 
Then  be  thy  flight  among  the  skies  : 

Take,  then,  oh  !  take  the  skylark's  wing. 
And  leave  dull  earth,  and  heavenward  rise 
O'er  all  its  tearful  clouds,  and  sing 
On  skylark's  wing  ! 

Another  life-spring  there  adorns 

Another  youth,  without  the  dread 
Of  cruel  care,  whose  crown  of  thorns 

Is  here  ior  manhood's  aching  head.— 
Oh  !  there  are  realms  of  welcome  day, 
A  world  where  tears  are  wiped  awny  ! 
Then  be  thy  flight  among  the  skies  : 

Take,  then,  oh  !  take  the  skylark's  wing;, 
And  lea\e  dull  earth,  and  heavenNvard  rise 

O'er  all  its  tt  arfu!  clouds,  and  sing 

On  skylark's  win^  !  > 


THE  COOK'S  ORACLE. 


THE  COOK'S  01? A  CLE  • 

The  Cook* s  Orach;  containing  Receipts  for  Plain  Cookery,  ^'c;  the  whole  being ih^ 
Result  of  actual  Experiments  instituted  in  the  Kitchen  of  a  Physician. 

DR  KITCHENER  has  greatly  recognised  the  genius  of  his  name 
by  taking  boldly  the  path  to  which  it  points  ;  disregarding  all 
the  usual  seductions  of  life,  he  has  kept  his  eye  steadily  on  the  larder, 
the  Mecca  of  his  appetite;  and  has  unravelUd  all  the  mysteries  and 
intricacies  of  celery  soup,  and  beef  haricot,  to  the  eyes  of  a  reading 
public.  He  has  taken  an  extensive  kitchen  range  over  the  whole 
world  of  stews,  and  broils,  and  roasts,  and  comes  home  to  the  fireside 
(from  which,  indeed,  his  body  has  never  departed),  boiling  over  with 
knowledge — stored  with  curiosities  of  bone  and  sinew — a  made-up 
human  dish  of  cloves,  mace,  curry,  catsup,  cayenne,  and  the  like.  He 
has  sailed  over  all  the  soups,  has  touched  at  all  the  quarters  of  the  lamb, 
has  been,  in  short,  round  the  stomach  world,  and  returns  a  second 
Captain  Cook!  Dr  Kitchener  has  written  a  book;  and  if  he,  good 
easy  man,  should  think  to  surprise  any  friend  or  acquaintance  by  slily 
asking,  "What  book  have  I  written?"  he  would  be  sure  to  be 
astounded  with  a  successful  reply,  "A  book  on  Cookery."  His  name 
is  above  all  disguises.  In  the  same  way  a  worthy  old  gentleman  of 
our  acquaintance,  who  was  wont  to  lead  his  visitors  around  his  kitchen 
garden  (the  Doctor  will  prick  up  his  ears  at  this)  which  he  had  care- 
fully and  cunningly  obscured  with  a  laurel  hedge,  and  who  always 
said,  with  an  exulting  tone,  "  Now,  you  would  be  puzzled  to  say  where 
the  kitchen  garden  was  situated,"  once  met  with  a  stony-he:  rted  man 
who  remorselessly  answered,  "  Not  I  !  over  that  hedge,  to  be  sure." 
The  Doctor  might  expect  you,  in  answer  to  his  query,  to  say — 
"A  book,  sir  !  Why,  perhaps  you  have  plunged  your  whole  soul  into 
the  ocean  of  an  epic  ;  or  rolled  your  mind,  with  the  success  of  a 
Sisyphus,  up  the  hill  of  metaphysics;  or  pi  .yed  the  sedate  game  of 
the  mathematics,  that  Chinese  puzzle  to  English  minds  !  or  gone  a 
tour  with  Dugald  Stewart,  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  or  leaped  double 
sentences  and  waded  through  metaphors,  in  a  giamm  itical  steeple- 
chase with  Colonel  Thornton  ;  or  turned  liter  uy  cuckoo,  and  gone 
sucking  the  eggs  of  other  people's  books,  and  making  the  woods  of 
the  world  echo  with  one  solitary,  complaining,  r^z//V7£//y/^  note."  Such 
might  be  the  Doctor's  notion  of  a  reply,  to  which  we  fancy  we  see  him 
simmering  \s\\\\  delight,  and  saying,  "No,  sir!  I  have  not  meddled 
either  with  the  curry  of  poetry  or  the  cold  meat  of  prose.  I  have  not 
wasted  over  the  slow  fire  of  the  metaphysics,  or  cut  up  the  mathe- 
matics into  thin  slices — I  have  not  lost  myself  amongst  the  kick-shaivs 
of  fine  scenery,  or  pampered  myself  on  the  mock-turtle  of  metaphors. 
Neither  have  I  dined  at  the  table  and  the  expense  of  other  men's 
minds !  No,  sir,  I  have  written  on  cookery,  on  the  kitchen,  on  the 
solids — 'the  substantial,  Sir  Giles,  the  substantial  !'" 

•  Loudon  Magazine,  Oct.  1 821. 


THE  COOK'S  OR  :CLE.  5 

If  it  were  not  that  critics  are  proverbial  for  having  no  bowels,  we 
Bhould  hesitate  at  entering  the  paradise  of  pies  and  puddings  which 
Dr  Kitchener  has  opened  to  us  ;  for  the  steam  of  his  rich  sentences 
rises  about  our  senses  like  the  odours  of  flowers  iiround  the  imagina-* 
tion  of  a  poet ;  and  larded  beef  goes  nigh  to  lord  it  over  our  bewil- 
dered appetites.  But  being  steady  men,  of  sober  and  temperate 
habits,  and  used  to  privations  in  the  way  of  food,  we  shall  not  scruple 
at  looking  a  leg  of  mutton  in  the  face  or  shaking  hands  with  a 
shoulder  of  veal.  "Minced  collops"  nothing  daunt  us  ;  we  brace  our 
nerves,  and  are  not  overwhelmed  with  "cockle  catsup!"  When 
Bays  asks  his  friend,  "  How  do  you  do  when  you  write?"  it  would 
seem  that  he  had  the  Cook's  Oracle  in  his  eye — for  to  men  of  any 
mastication,  never  was  there  a  book  that  required  more  training  for 
a  quiet  and  useful  perusal.  Cod's-head  rises  before  you  in  all  its 
glory  !  while  the  oysters  revolve  around  it,  in  their  firmament  of 
melted  butter,  like  its  well-ordered  satellites  !  Moorgame,  mackerel, 
mussels,  fowls,  eggs,  and  force-meat  balls,  start  up  m  all  directions 
and  dance  the  hays  in  the  imagination.  We  should  recommend  those 
readers  with  whom  dinner  is  a  habit,  not  to  venture  on  the  Doctor's 
pages,  without  seeing  that  their  hunger,  like  a  ferocious  house-do;^,  is 
carefully  tied  up.  To  read  four  pa.L;es  with  an  unchained  appetite, 
would  bring  on  dreadful  dreams  of  being  destroyed  with  spits,  or 
drowned  in  mulligatawny  soup,  or  of  having  your  tongue  neatly 
smothered  in  your  own  brains,  and,  as  Mathews  says,  a  lemon  stuck 
in  your  mouth.  We  cannot  but  conceive  that  such  reading,  in  such 
unprepared  minds,  would  have  strange  influences  ;  and  that  the 
dreams  of  persons  would  be  dished  up  to  suit  the  various  palates. 
The  school-girl  would,  like  the  French  goose,  "be  persuaded  to  roast 
itself."  The  indolent  man  would  "  sleep  a  fortnight,"  and  even  then 
not  be  fit  for  use.  The  lover  would  dream  th.it  his  heart  was 
overdone.  The  author  v\ould  be  roasted  alive  in  his  own  quills  and 
basted  with  cold  ink.  It  were  an  endless  task  to  follow  this  specula- 
tion ;  and  indeed  we  are  keeping  our  readers  too  long  without  the 
meal  to  which  we  have  taken  the  liberty  of  inviting  them.  The 
dinner  "bell  invites"  us — we  go,  and  it  is  done. 

The  book,  the  Cook's  Oracle,  opens  with  a  preface,  as  other 
books  occasionally  do ;  but  "there  the  likeness  ends  ;"  for  it  continues 
with  a  whole  bunch  of  introductions,  treating  of  cooks,  and  invita- 
tions to  dinner,  and  refusals,  and  "  friendly  advice,"  and  weights  and 
measures,  and  then  we  get  fairly  launched  on  the  sea  of  boiling, 
broiling,  roasting,  stewing,  and  again  return  and  cast  anchor  among 
the  vegetables.  It  is  impossible  to  say  where  the  book  begins  ;  it  is 
a  heap  of  initiatory  chapters — a  parcel  of  graces  before  meat, — a  bunch 
of  heads,— the  asparagus  of  literature.  You  are  not  troubled  with 
**  more  last  words  of  Mr  Baxter,"  but  are  delighted,  and  r^delighted, 
with  more  first  words  of  Dr  Kitchener.  He  makes  several  starts  like 
a  restless  race-horse  before  he  fairly  gets  upon  the  second  course  ;  or 
rather,  like  Lady  Macbeth's  dinner  party,  he  stands  much  upon  the 
order  of  his  going.  But  now,  to  avoid  sinking  into  the  same  trick,  we 
will  proceed  without  further  preface  to  conduct  our  readers  through 
the  maze  of  pots,  gridirons,  and  frying  pans,  which  Dr  Kitchener  has 


S  THE  COOK'S  ORACLE. 

rendered  a  very  poetical,  or  we  should  say,  a  verv  palaljible  amu9» 
ment. 

'Y\\t  first  preface  tells  us,  ititer  alia,  thnt  he  has  worked  all  the 
culinary  problems  which  his  book  contains  in  his  own  kitchen  ;  and 
that,  after  this  warm  experience,  he  did  not  venture  to  print  a  sauce, 
or  a  stew,  until  he  had  read  "two  hundred  cookery  books,"  which,  as 
he  says,  "he  patiently  pioneered  through,  before  he  set  about  record- 
ing the  results  of  his  own  experiments  !"  We  scarcely  thought  there 
had  been  so  many  volumes  written  on  the  Dutch-oven. 

The  first  introduction  begins  thus  : 

*'  The  followmg  receipts  are  not  a  mere  marrowless  collection  of 
shreds,  and  patches,  and  cuttings,  and  pastings,  but  a  boiu^fia'e  register 
of  practical  facts, — accumulated  by  a  perseverance  not  to  be  subdued, 
or  evaporated,  by  the  igniferous  terrors  of  a  roasting  fire  in  the  dog 
days — in  defianee  of  the  odoriferous  and  calefacient  repellents  of 
roasting — boiling — frying — and  broiling  ;  moreover,  the  author  has 
submitted  to  a  labour  no  preceding  Cookery  Book  maker,  perhaps, 
ever  attempted  to  encounter — having  eatdu  each  receipt  before  he  set 
it  down  in  his  book." 

We  should  like  to  see  the  Doctor,  we  confess,  after  this  extraordinary 
statement.  To  have  superintended  the  agitations  of  the  pot — to  have 
hung  affectionately  over  a  revolving  calf  s  heart — to  have  patiently 
witnessed  the  noisy  marriage  of  bubble  and  squeak — to  have  coolly 
investigated  the  mystery  of  a  haricot— appears  within  the  compass  of 
any  old  lady  or  gentleman,  whose  frame  could  stand  the  fire  and 
whose  soul  could  rule  the  roast.  But  to  have  eaten  the  substantials 
of  four  hundred  and  forty  closely-printed  pages  is  "a  thing  to  read  of. 
not  to  tell."  It  calls  for  a  man  of  iron  interior,  a  man  alieni  appetcns, 
stii profiisus.  It  demands  the  rival  of  time  ;  an  edax  rerninJ  The 
Doctor  does  not  tell  us  how  he  travelled  from  gridiron  to  frying-pan — 
from  fryirg-pan  to  Dutch-oven — from  Dutch-oven  to  spit — from  spit 
to  pot — from  pot  to  fork — he  leaves  us  to  guess  at  his  progress.  We 
presume  he  ate  his  way,  page  by  page,  through  fish,  flesh,  fowl,  and 
vegetable  ;  he  would  have  left  us  dead  among  the  soups  and  gravies. 
Had  a  whole  army  of  martyrs  accompanied  him  on  this  Russian  re- 
treat of  the  appetite,  we  should  have  found  them  strewing  the  way; 
and  him  alone,  the  Napoleon  of  the  task,  living  and  fattening  at  the 
end  of  the  journey.  The  introduction  ;^oes  on  very  learnedly,  descant- 
ing upon  Shakespeare,  Descartes.  Dr  Johnson,  Mrs  Glasse,  Professor 
Bradley,  Pythagoras,  Miss  Seward,  and  other  persons  equally  illustri- 
ous. The  Doctor's  chief  aim  is  to  prove,  \\&  believe,  that  cookery  is 
the  most  laudable  pursuit,  and  the  most  pleasurable  amusement,  of 
life.  Much  depends  on  the  age  of  your  domestics  ;  for  we  are  told 
that  "  it  is  a  good  maxim  to  select  servants  not  younger  than  THIRTY." 
Is  it  so?  Youth,  ''thou  art  shamed!"  This  first  introduction  con- 
cludes with  a  long  eulogy  upon  the  Doctor's  "  laborious  stove  work  ;" 
and  upon  the  spirit,  temper,  and  ability  with  which  he  has  dressed  his 
book.  The  Doctor  appends  to  this  introduction  a  chapter  called 
**  Culinary  Curiosities,"  in  whieh  he  gives  the  following  recipe  for 
*' persuading  a  goose  to  roast  itself."  We  must  say  it  out-horrors  all 
tke  horrors  we  ever  read  of. 


THE  COOK'S  ORACLE, 


"How  TO  ROAST  AND   EAT  A   GOOSE  ALIVE. 

"Take  a  goose,  or  a  duck,  or  some  such  lively  creature  (but  a  goose 
Is  best  of  all  for  this  purpose),  pull  off  all  her  feathers,  only  thi.  head 
and  neck  must  be  spared,  then  make  a  fire  round  about  her,  not  too 
closa  to  her,  that  the  smoke  do  not  choke  her,  and  that  the  fire  may 
not  burn  her  too  soon  ;  nor  too  far  off,  that  she  may  not  escape  free  : 
within  the  circle  of  the  fire  let  there  be  set  small  cups  and  pots  full  of 
water  wherein  salt  and  honey  are  mingled,  and  let  there  be  set  also 
chargers  full  of  sodden  apples,  cut  into  small  pieces  in  the  dish.  The  " 
goose  must  be  all  larded  and  basted  over  with  butter,  to  make  her  the 
more  fit  to  be  eaten,  and  may  roast  the  better  :  put  then  fire  about 
her,  but  do  not  make  too  much  haste,  whenas  you  see  her  begin  to 
roast ;  for  by  walking  about,  and  flying  here  and  there,  being  cooped 
in  by  the  fire  that  stops  her  way  out,  the  unwearied  goose  is  kept  in  ;* 
she  will  fall  to  drink  the  water  to  quench  her  thirst,  and  cool  her  heart, 
and  all  her  body,  and  the  apple-sauce  will  make  her  dung,  and  cleanse 
and  empty  her.  And  when  she  roasteth,  and  consumes  inwardly, 
always  wet  her  head  and  heart  with  a  wet  sponge  ;  and  when  you  see 
her  giddy  with  running,  and  begin  to  stumble,  her  heart  wants  mois- 
ture, and  she  is  roasted  enou^^h.  Take  her  up,  set  her  before  your 
guests,  and  she  will  cry  as  you  cut  off  any  part  from  her,  and  will  be 
almost  eaten  up  before  she  be  dead.  It  is  mighty  pleasant  to  behold  ! ! ! 
See  Wecker's  Secrets  of  Nature,  in  folio,  London,  1660,  pp.  148,  309." 

The  next  chapter,  or  introduction  (for  we  are  not  within  forty  spits 
length  of  the  cookery  directions  yet),  is  entitled  "  Invitations  to 
Dinner  ;"  and  commences  thus  : — 

"  In  the  affairs  of  the  mouth  the  strictest  punctuality  is  indispens- 
able;— the  gastronomer  ought  to  be  as  accurate  an  observer  of  time 
as  the  astronomer — the  least  delay  produces  fatal  and  irreparable  mis- 
fortunes." 

It  appearing,  therefore,  that  delay  is  dangerous,  as  mammas  say  to 
their  daughters  on  certain  occasions,  the  Doctor  directs  that  "the 
dining-room  should  be  furnished  with  a  good-gomg  clock."  He  then 
speaks  of  food  "well  done  when  it  is  done,"  which  leads  to  certain 
learned  sentences  upon  indigestion.  The  sad  disregard  of  dinner-hours 
generally  observed  meets  with  his  most  serious  displeasure  and  re- 
buke ;  but  to  refuse  an  invitation  to  dinner  is  the  capital  crime,  for 
which  there  is  apparently  no  capital  punishment.  "Nothing  can  be 
more  disobliging  than  a  refusal  which  is  not  grounded  on  some  very 
strong  and  unavoidable  cause,  except  not  coming  at  the  appointed 
hour  ;  according  to  the  laws  of  conviviality,  a  certificate  from  a  sherift's 
officer,  a  doctor,  or  an   undertaker,  are   the   only  pleas  which   are 

•  This  cook  of  a  goose,  or  goose  of  a  cook,  whichever  it  may  be,  strangely 
leminds  us  of  the  Doctor's  own  intense  and  enthusiastic  bustle  among  the 
butter-boats.  We  fancy  we  see  him,  and  not  the  goose,  "walking  about,  and 
flying  here  and  there,  being  cooped  in  by  the  fire."  By  this  time,  we  should 
suppose,  he  must  be  about  "roasted  enough." 


•  THE  COOK'S  ORACLE, 

admissible.  The  duties  which  invitation  imposes  do  not  fall  only  OB 
the  persons  invited,  but,  hke  all  other  social  duties,  are  reciprocal." 

If  you  should,  therefore,  fortunately  happen  to  be  arrested,  or  have 
had  the  good  luck  to  fracture  a  limb,  or,  if  better  than  nil,  you  should 
have  taken  a  box  in  that  awful  theatre  at  v\hich  all  must  be  present 
once  and  for  ever ;  you  may  be  pardoned  refusing  the  invitation  of 
some  tiresome  friend  to  take  a  chop  ;  but  there  is  no  other  excuse,  no 
other  available  excuse,  for  absenting  yourself;  no  mental  inaptitude 
will  save  you.     Late  comers  are  thus  rebuked  : — 

"There  are  some  who  seldom  keep  an  appointment ;  we  can  assure 
them  they  as  seldom  ''scape  without  whipping,'  and  exciting  those 
•  murmurs  which  inevitably  proceed  from  the  best-regulated  stomachs 
•^when  they  are  empty  and  impatient  to  be  filled." 

Carving  is  the  next  subject  of  the  Doctors  care  ;  but  he  resolutely 
and  somewhat  vehemently  protests  against  your  wielding  the  king  of 
knives  at  any  other  table  than  your  own  :  thus  for  ever  excluding  an 
author  from  the  luxuries  of  table-anatomy.  After  giving  an  erudite 
passage  from  the  "Almanach  des  Gourmands,"  tl^e  Doctor  wanders 
into  anecdote,  and  becomes  facetious  after  the  following  recipe  : — 

"  I  once  heard  a  gentle  hint  on  this  subject  given  to  a  blue-mould 
fancier,  who,  by  looking  too  long  at  a  Stilton  cheese,  was  at  last  com- 
pletely overcome  by  his  eye  exciting  his  appetite,  till  it  became  quite 
ungovernable,  and  unconscious  of  everything  but  the  mity  object  of 
his  contemplation,  he  began  to  pick  out,  in  no  small  portions,  the 
primest  parts  Iiis  eye  could  select  from  the  centre  of  the  cheese. 

"The  good-natured  founder  of  the  feast,  highly  amused  at  the  ecsta- 
sies each  morsel  created  in  its  passage  over  the  palate  of  the  enraptured 
gourtna7id,  thus  encouraged  the  perseverance  of  his  guest — ''  Cut 
away,  my  dear  sir,  cut  away,  use  no  ceremony,  I  pray  ; — I  hope  you 
will  pick  out  all  the  best  of  my  cheese — the  rind  and  the  rotten  will 
do  very  well  for  my  wife  and  family  !" 

There  is  something  so  serene  and  simple  in  the  above  little  story, 
that  we  recommend  it  to  persons  after  dinner  in  preference  to  those 
highly-seasoned  and  spicy  jests  which  Mr  Joseph  Miller  has  potted 
for  the  use  of  posterity  The  next  introduction  contains  ''Friendly 
Advice  to  Cooks  and  other  servants  ;"  but  we  cannot  heip  thinking 
that  Dr  Swift  has  in  some  degree  forestalled  our  own  good  Doctor  in 
this  department  of  literature,  although  perhaps  Dr  Kitchener  is  the 
most  sober  of  counsellors.  The  following,  to  be  sure,  is  a  little  sus- 
picious : — "  Enter  into  all  their  plans  of  economy,  and  endeavour 
to  make  the  most  of  everything,  as  well  for  your  own  honour 
as  your  master's  profit."  This,  without  the  note,  would  be  unex- 
ceptionable ;  but  the  Doctor  quotes  from  Dr  Trusler  (all  the  Doctors 
are  redolent  of  servants)  as  follows  : — "  I  am  persuaded  that  no  ser- 
vant ever  saved  her  master  sixpence  but  she  fotitid  it  in  the  end 
in  her  own  pocket." — "  Have  the  dust  removed,"  siys  Dr  Kitchener, 
"regularly  every  fortnight  !" — W'hat  dustf — Not  that,  we  trust,  which 
people  are  often  entreated  to  come  down  with.  T'lC  nccumulation  of 
soot  has  its  dire  evils  :  for  "  many  good  dinners  have  been  spoiled,  and 
many  houses  burned  down,  by  the  soot  falling."  Thus  the  Doctor  very 
Ijroperly  puts  the  greater  evil  first.     " Give  notice  to  your  employe:! 


THE  COOK'S  ORACLE.  9 

when  the  contents  of  your  coal  cellar  are  diminished  to  a  chaldron." 
Diminished  I  we  should  be  glad  to  hear  when  our  cellars  had  increased 
to  this  stock.  There  is  no  hope,  then,  for  those  chamber-gentlemeiv 
who  fritter  away  their  lives  by  sack  or  bushel  !  Dr  Kitchener  is  rather 
abstruse  and  particular  in  another  of  his  directions  :— "  The  best  rule 
for  marketing  is  to  pay  ready  money  for  everything."  This  is  a  good 
rule  with  the  elect  ;  but,  is  there  no  luxury  in  a  baker's  bill  ?  Are 
butchers'  reckonings  nothing?  Is  there  no  virtue  in  a  milk-tally? 
We  cannot  help  thinking  that  tick  was  a  great  invention,  and  gives 
many  a  man  a  dinner  that  would  otherwise  go  unfed. 

The  chapter  on  weights  and  measures  is  short,  but  deeply  interest- 
ing and  intense.  There  is  an  episode  upon  trough  mitmeg-graters 
that  would  do  the  water-gruel  generation  good  to  hear. 

And  now  the  book  begins  to  boil.  The  reader  is  told  that  meat  takes 
twenty  minutes  to  the  pound;  and  that  block-tin  saucepans  are  the 
best.  We  can  fish  out  little  else,  except  a  long  and  rather  skilful  cal- 
culation of  the  manner  in  which  meat  jockeys  itself  and  reduces  its 
weight  in  the  cooking.  Buckle  and  Sam  Chiffney  are  nothing  to 
"a  leg  of  mutton  with  the  shank  bone  taken  out  ;"  and  it  perhaps 
might  not  be  amiss  if  the  Newmarket  profession  were  to  consider  how 
far  it  would  be  practicable  to  substitute  the  cauldron  ior  the  blattket, 
and  thus  reduce  by  steam.  W^e  should  suppose  a  young  gentleman, 
with  half-an-hour's  bciling,  would  ride  somewhere  about  feather- 
weight. 

Baking  is  dismissed  in  a  page  and  a  half.  We  are  sorry  to  find 
that  some  joints,  when  fallen  into  poverty  and  decay,  are  quite  unworthy 
of  credit.  "When  baking  a  joint  oi  poor  meat,  before  it  has  been 
half  baked  I  have  seen  //  (what?)  start  from  the  bone,  and  shrivel  up 
scarcely  to  be  believed." 

Feasting  is  the  next  object  of  Dr  Kitchener's  anxious  care  ;  and  if 
this  chapter  be  generally  read,  we  shall  not  be  surprised  to  see  people 
in  future  roasting  their  meat  before  their  doors  and  in  their  areas  :  for 
the  Doctor  says  : — 

^'■Roasting  shonld  be  done  in  the  open  air,  to  ventilate  the  meat  from 
its  own  fumes,  and  by  the  radiant  heat  of  a  clear  glowing  fire,— other- 
wise it  is  in  fact  baked — the  machines  the  economical  grate-makers 
call  roasters,  are,  in  plain  English,  ovens." 

The  Doctor  then  proceeds,  not  iDeing  content  with  telling  you  how 
to  cook  your  victuals,  to  advise  carefully  as  to  the  best  method  of  cook- 
ing \h.s:fire.  "  The  fire  that  is  but  just  sufficient  to  receive  the  noble 
sirloin  will  parch  up  a  lighter  joint ;  "  which  is  plainly  a  translation 
into  the  cook's  own  particular  language  of  "  temper  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb."  The  chapter  does  not  conclude  without  observing  that 
"  Everybody  knows  the  advantage  of  slow  boiling — slow  roasting  is 
equally  important."     This  is  an  axiom. 

Frying  is  a  very  graceful  and  lively  species  of  cooking,  though  yield- 
ing perhaps  in  its  vivacity  and  music  to  broiling — but  of  this  more  anon. 
We  are  sorry  to  find  the  Doctor  endeavouring  to  take  away  from  the 
originality  of  fryitig,  classing  it  unkmdly  with  the  inferior  sorts  ol 
boiling — calling  it,  in  fact,  the  mere  corpulence  of  boiling. 

"  A  frying-pan  should  be  about  four  inches  deep,  with  a  perfectly 


in  THE  COOICS  ORACLE. 

flat  arc!  thick  bottom,  twelve  inches  long,  and  nine  bioad,  with  perpen 
dicular  sides,  and  must  be  half  filled  with  fat :  good  frying  is,  in  fact^ 
boiling  in  fat.  To  make  sure  that  the  pan  -s  quite  clean,  rub  a  little  fat 
over  it,  and  then  make  it  warm,  and  rub  it  with  a  clean  cloth." 

Broiling  follows.  We  really  begin  to  be  enacting  this  sort  of 
cookery  ourselves,  from  the  vigor  and  spirit  with  which  we  have 
rushed  along  in  the  company  of  Dr.  Kitchener.  Broiiittg  is  the  poetry 
of  cooking.  The  lyre-like  shape  of  the  instrument  on  which  it  is  per- 
formed, and  the  brisk  and  pleasant  sounds  that  arise  momentarily, 
are  rather  musical  than  culinary.  We  are  transported,  at  the  thought, 
to  that  golden  gridiron  in  the  Beef  Steak  Club,  which  seems  to  confine 
the  white  cook  in  his  burning  cage,  which  generates  wit,  whim,  and 
Bong,  for  hours  together,  and  pleasantly  blends  the  fanciful  and  the 
substantial  in  one  laughing  and  robust  harmony. 

The  Doctor  is  profound  on  the  subject  of  vegetables,  and  when  we 
consider  the  importance  of  it,  we  are  not  surprised  to  hear  him  earnestly 
exclaim,  "  I  should  as  soon  think  of  7-oasting  an  ani/nal  alive,  as  of 
boiling  a  vegetable  afle?-  it  is  dead."  No  one  will  question  that  the  one 
is  quite  as  pardonable  as  the  other.  Our  readers  cannot  be  too  par- 
ticular in  looking  to  their  brocoli  and  potatoes.  "  This  branch  of 
cookery  requires  the  most  vigilant  attention.  If  vegetables  are  a  minute 
or  two  too  long  over  the  fire,  they  lose  all  their  beauty  and  flavor. 
If  not  thoroughly  boiled  tender,  they  are  tremendously  indigestible, 
and  much  more  troublesome  during  their  residence  in  the  stomach 
than  underdone  meats." 

We  pass  over  the  rudiments  of  dressing  fish,  and  of  compounding 
broths  and  soups,  except  with  remarking,  that  a  turbot  is  said  to  be 
better  for  7iot  being  fresh,  and  that  "  lean  juicy  beef,  mutton,  or,  veal 
form  the  basis  of  broth?'' 

Gravies  and  sauces  are  not  neglected.  The  Doctor  writes,  "  How- 
ever 'les  pompeuses  bagatelles  de  la  cuisine  masquee,'  may  tickle  the 
fancy  of  demi-connoisseurs,  who,  leaving  the  substance  to  pursue  the 
shadow,  prefer  wonderful  and  whimsical  metamorphoses  and  things 
extravagantly  expensive,  to  those  which  are  intrinsically  excellent — in 
whose  mouth  mutton  can  hardly  hope  for  a  welcome  unless  accom- 
panied by  venison  sauce — or  a  rabbit  any  chance  for  a  race  down  the 
red  lane,  without  assuming  the  form  of  a  frog  or  a  spider — or  pork 
without  being  either  'goosified'  or  'lambified,'  and  game  and  poultry  in 
the  shape  of  crawfish  or  hedgehogs ;  these  travesties  rather  show  the 
patience  than  the  science  of  the  cook, — and  the  bad  taste  of  those 
who  prefer  such  baby  tricks  to  old  English  nourishing  and  substantial 
plain  cookery.  We  could  have  made  this  the  biggest  book  with  half 
tJie  trouble  it  has  taken  7)ie  to  make  it  the  best ; — concentration  and 
perspicuity  have  been  my  aim." 

We  do  not  know  what  the  Doctor  understands  as  "  a  big  book ; " 
but  to  our  notions  (and  we  are  experienced  in  the  weights  and 
measures  of  printed  works)  the  Cook's  Oracle  is  a  tolerably  huge 
and  Gog-like  production.  We  should  have  been  glad  to  have  had  a 
calculation  of  what  the  manuscript  lost  in  the  printing.  In  truth  a 
comparative  scale  of  the  wasting  of  meat  and  prose  during  the  cooking 
would  be  no  uninteresting  performance.    For  our  parts,  we  can  only 


THE  COOICS  ORACLE.  II 

remark  from  experience,  that  these  our  articles  in  the  London  Maga- 
zine boil  up  like  spin.ich.  We  lancy,  when  written,  that  we  have  a 
heap  of  leaves  fit  to  feed  thirty  columns  ;  and  they  absolutely  and 
alarmingly  shrink  up  to  a  page  or  two  when  dressed  by  the  com- 
positor. 

The  romantic  fancy  of  cooks  is  thus  restrained  : — 

"The  ima;^ination  of  most  cooks  is  so  incessantly  on  the  hunt  for 
a  relish,  that  they  seem  to  think  they  cannot  make  sauce  sufficiently 
savoury,  without  putting  into  it  everything  that  ever  was  eaten  ;  and 
supposing  every  addition  must  be  an  improvement,  they  frequently 
overpower  the  natural  flavour  of  their  plain  sauces,  by  overloading 
them  with  salt  and  spices,  &c.,— but,  remember,  these  will  be  de- 
teriorated by  any  addition,  save  only  just  salt  enough  to  awaken  the 
palate — the  lover  of  'piquance'  and  compound  flavours  may  have 
recourse  to  the  *  Magazine  of  Taste.'" 

Again — 

"Why  have  clove  and  allspice, — or  mace  and  nutmeg,  in  the 
same  sauce? — or  marjoram,  thyme,  and  savory — or  onions,  leeks, 
eschallots,  and  garlick?  One  will  very  well  supply  the  place  of  the 
other,  and  the  frugal  cook  may  save  somethmg  considerable  by 
attending  to  this  to  the  advantage  of  her  employers,  and  her  own  time 
and  trouble.  You  might  as  well,  to  make  soup,  order  one  quart  of 
water  from  the  Thames,  another  from  the  New  River,  a  third  from 
Hampstead,  and  a  fourth  from  Chelsea,  with  a  certain  portion  of 
spring  and  rain  water." 

The  Doctor  himself,  however,  in  spite  of  his  correction  of  the  cooks, 
is  not  entirely  free  from  the  fanciful.  When  you  have  opened  a  bottle 
of  catsup,  he  says,  "use  only  the  best  superfine  velvet  taper  corks." 
This  is  drawing  a  cork  with  the  hand  of  a  poet. 

And  now,  will  the  reader  believe  it.''  The  work  commences  afresh  ! 
After  all  our  labour, — after  all  our  travelling  througli  boihng,  broiling, 
roasting,  &c.,  we  find  that  we  have  the  whole  to  go  over  again.  To 
our  utter  dismay,  p.  142  begins  anew  with — boiling!  It  is  little  com- 
fort to  us  that  joints  and  cuttings  come  in  for  their  distinct  treatment  : 
we  seem  to  have  made  no  way,  and  sit  down  with  as  much  despair  as 
a  young  school-girl,  who,  after  three-quarters  of  a  year's  dancing,  is 
put  back  to  the  Scotch  step.  Beef  has  been  spoken  of  before  ;  but 
we  have  not  at  all  made  up  our  minds  on  the  f  Hawing  subject  : — 

"  Ubs. — in  Mrs  Mason's  Ladies'  Assistant  tiiis  joint  is  called  haunch> 
bone;  in  Henderson's  Cookery,  edge-bone;  in  Domestic  Manage- 
ment, aitch-bone  ;  in  Reynolds'  Cookery,  ische-bone  ;  in  Mrs  Lydia 
Fisher's  Prudent  Housewife,  ach-bone  ;  in  Mrs  M'lver's  Cookery, 
hook-bone.  We  have  also  seen  it  spelt  each-bone,  and  ridge-bone, 
and  we  have  also  heard  it  called  natch-bone." 

Of  "  half  a  calf's  bend,"  Dr  Kitchener  says,  slily  enough,  "  If  you  like 

.  li  full-dressed,  score  it  supeijicially  ;  beat  up  the  yolk  of  an  tg'g,  and 

rub  it  over  the  head   with  71  feather ;  powder  it^'  &c.     Such  a  calf'i 

head  as  this,  so  full-dressed,  might  be  company  for  the  best  nobl«»- 

man's  ditto  in  the  land. 

It  is  quite  impossible  for  us  to  accompany  Dr  Kitchener  regularly 
through  "roasting,  frying,  vegetables,"  &C.,  as  we  are  by  no  means 


la  THE  COOK'S  ORACLE. 

suie  that  our  readers  would  sanction  the  encore.  We  shall  pick  a  bit 
here  and  a  bit  there,  from  the  Doctor's  dainty  larder  ;  and  take  care 
to  choose,  as  the  English  do  with  a  French  bill  of  fare,  from  those 
niceties  which  are  novelties. 

"  A  pig,"  observes  the  Doctor,  as  though  he  were  speaking  of  any 
ether  dull,  obstinate  personage,  "  is  a  very  troublesome  subject  to 
roast.  Most  persons  have  them  baked:  send  a  quarter  of  a  pound  oi 
butter,  and  beg  the  baker  to  baste  it  well."  The  following  occurs  to 
us  to  be  as  difficult  a  direction  to  fulfil  as  any  of  Sir  Thomas  Parkins's 
wrestling  instructions  :  "  Lay  your  pig  back  to  back  in  the  dish,  with 
one  half  of  the  head  on  each  side,  and  the  ears  one  at  each  end,  which 
you  must  take  care  to  make  nice  and  crisp.,  or  you  will  get  scolded, 
as  the  good  man  was  who  bought  his  wife  a  pig  with  one  ear."  The 
point  at  the  end  is  like  the  point  of  a  spit.  Again:  "A  sucking  pig, 
like  a  young  child,  must  not  be  left  for  an  instant  !"  Never  was  such 
affection  manifested  before  for  this  little  interesting  and  persecuted 
tribe. 

If  Izaak  Walton  be  the  greatest  of  writers  on  the  catching  of  fish, 
Dr  Kitchener  is,  beyond  doubt,  triumphant  over  all  who  have  written 
upon  the  dressing  of  them.  The  Doctor  dwells  upon  "the  fine  pale 
red  rose  colour"  of  pickled  salmon,  till  you  doubt  whether  he  is  not 
admiring  a  carnation.  "  Cod's  skull  "  becomes  flowery  and  attractive  ; 
and  fine  "silver  eels,"  when  "steued  Wiggy's  way,"  swim  in  beauty 
as  well  as  butter.  The  Doctor  points  out  the  best  method  of  killing 
this  perversely  living  fish,  observing,  very  justly,  "that  the  humane 
executioner  does  certain  criminals  the  favour  to  hang  them  before  he 
breaks  them  on  the  wheel." 

Of  salmon  the  Doctor  rather  quaintly  and  posingly  observes,  "  The 
thinnest  part  of  the  fish  is  \\\t  fattest.  If  yon  have  any  left.,  put  it  into 
a  pie-dish,  and  cover  it,"  &c.     The  direction  is  conditional,  we  perceive. 

"  Remember  to  choose  your  lobsters  '■heavy  and  lively.' " — "  Motion," 
says  the  Doctor,  "is  the  index  of  their  freshness." 

Upon  oysters  Dr  Kitchener  is  eloquent  indeed.  He  is,  as  it  were, 
"native  here,  and  to  the  manner  born." 

"  The  true  lover  of  an  oyster  will  have  some  regard  for  the  feelings 
of  his  little  favourite,  and  will  never  abandon  it  to  the  mercy  of  a 
bunglmg  operator — but  will  open  it  himself,  and  contrive  to  detach 
the  fish  from  the  shell  so  dexterously,  that  the  oyster  is  hardly  con- 
scious he  has  been  ejected  from  his  lodging,  till  he  feels  the  teeth  of  the 
piscivorous  gourmand  tickling  him  to  death." 

Who  would  not  be  an  o\  ster  to  be  thus  surprised,  to  be  thus  pleas- 
ingly ejected  from  its  tenement  of  mother-of-pearl,  to  be  thus  tickled 
to  death  ?  When  we  are  j^laced  in  our  shell,  we  should  have  no  ob- 
jection to  be  astonished  with  a  similar  delicate  and  titillating  opening! 

Giblet  soup  requires  to  be  eaten  with  the  fingers.  We  were  not 
aware  that  these  handy  instruments  could  be  used  successfully  in  the 
devouring  of  gravies  and  soups. 

"  N.B. — This  is  rather  a  family  dish  than  a  company  one;  the 
bones  cannot  be  well  picked  without  the  help  of  a  live  pincers.  Since 
Tom  Coryat  introduced  forks,  a.d.  1642,  it  has  not  been  the  fashion 
to  put  'pickers  and  stealers '  into  soup." 


THE  COOK'S  ORACLE.  13 

After  giving  a  most  elaborate  recipe  for  mock  turtle  soup,  he  pro« 
ceeds — 

"This  soup  was  eaten  by  the  committee  of  taste  with  unanimous 
applause,  and  they  pronounced  it  a  very  satisfactory  substitute  tor 
'the  far  fetched  and  dear  bought'  turtle  ;  which  itself  is  indebted  for 
its  title  of  '  sovereign  of  savouriness  '  to  the  rich  soup  with  which  it  is 
surrounded  ;  without  its  paraphernalia  of  double  relishes,  a  '  starved 
turtle '  has  not  more  intrinsic  sapidity  than  a  fatted  CALF." 

And  a  little  further  on  he  observes — 

"  Obi. — This  is  a  delicious  soup,  within  the  reach  of  those  'who  eat 
to  live;'  but  if  it  had  been  composed  expressly  for  those  who  only 
'live  to  eat,'  I  do  not  know  how  it  could  have  been  made  more  agree- 
able ;  as  it  is,  the  lover  of  good  eating  will  '  wish  his  throat  a  mile 
long,  and  every  inch  of  it  palate.'" 

Our  readers  will  pant  to  have  "  Mr  Michael  Kelly's  sauce  for  boiled 
tripe,  calf 's-head,  or  cow-heel."     It  is  this — 

"  Garlick  vinegar,  a  tablespoonful  ;  of  mustard,  brown  sugar,  and 
black  pepper,  a  teaspoonful  each  ;  stirred  into  halt  a  pint  of  oiled 
melted  butter." 

Gad-a-mercy,  what  a  gullet  must  be  in  the  possession  of  Mr  Michael 
Kelly  ! 

We  think  the  following  almost  a  superfluous  direction  to  cooks  : — 
"Take  your  chops  out  of  the  frying-pan,"  p.  324  ;  but  then  he  tells 
you  in  another  place,  "  to  put  your  tongue  into  plenty  of  cold  water  ;" 
p.  156,  which  makes  all  even  again. 

After  giving  ample  directions  for  the  making  of  essence  of  anchovy, 
the  Doctor  rather  damps  our  ardour  for  entering  upon  it,  by  the  fol- 
lowing observation:  "Mem. —  You  cannot  make  essence  of  anchovy 
half  so  cheap  as  you  can  buy  it." 

The  following  passage  is  rather  too  close  an  imitation  of  one  of  the 
puff  directions  in  the  Critic  : — 

"  To  a  pint  of  the  cleanest  and  strongest  rectified  spirit  (sold  by 
Rickards,  Piccadilly),  add  two  drachms  and  a  half  of  the  sweet  oil  of 
orange  peel  (sold  by  Stewart,  No.  11  Old  Broad  Street,  near  the  Bank), 
shake  it  up,"  &.c. 

"  Obs. — We  do  not  offer  this  receipt  as  a  rival  to  Mr  Johnson's 
curagoa  ;  it  is  only  proposed  as  an  humble  substitute  for  that  incom- 
parable liqueur." 

The  Doctor  proceeds  to  luxuriate  upon  made  dishes,  &c. ;  in  the 
course  of  which  he  says,  "  The  sirloin  of  beef  1  divide  into  three  parts  : 
I  first  have  it  nicely  boned!"  This  is  rather  a  suspicious  wav  of 
having  it  at  all.  Mrs  Phillips's  Irish  stew  has  all  the  fascination  of  hei 
country-women.  In  treating  of  shin  of  beef,  the  Doctor  gives  us  a 
proverb  which  we  never  remember  to  have  heard  before. 

"  Of  all  the  fowls  of  the  air,  commend  me  to  the  shin  of  beef :  for 
there's  marrow  for  the  master,  meat  for  the  mistress,  gristles  for  the 
servants,  and  bones  for  the  dogs." 

On  pounded  cheese  the  Doctor  writes,  "  'Y\\&piquance  of  this  biittery' 
caseous  relish,"  &c.  Is  not  this  a  little  overdone  f  The  pass.ige,  how- 
ever, on  the  frying  of  eg^^s  makes  up  for  all. 

"Be  sure  the  frying-pan  is  quite  clean  ;  when  the  fat  is  hot,  break 


r4  TO  CEI.IA. 

two  or  three  eggs  into  it  ;  do  not  turn  them,  but,  while  they  are  frying, 
keep  pouring  some  of  the  fat  over  them  with  a  spoon  :  when  the  yolk 
just  begins  to  look  white,  wliich  it  will  in  about  &  couple  of  minutes, 
they  are  done  enough  ; — the  white  must  not  h'se  its  transparency,  but 
the  yolk  be  seen  blushing  through  it  : — if  they  are  done  nicely,  they 
will  look  as  white  and  delicate  as  if  they  had  been  poached  ;  take 
them  up  with  a  tin  slice,  drain  the  fat  from  them,  trim  them  neatly, 
and  send  them  up  with  the  bacon  round  them." 

"The  beauty  of  a  poached  egg  is  for  the  yolk  to  be  seen  blushing 
through  the  white,  which  should  only  be  just  sufficiently  hardened  to 
form  a  transparent  veil  for  the  egg." 

So  much  for  the  Cook's  Oracle.  The  style  is  a  piquant  sauce  to 
the  solid  food  of  the  instructions  ;  and  we  never  recollect  reading 
sentences  that  relished  so  savourily.  The  Doctor  appears  to  have 
written  his  work  upon  the  back  of  a  dri(>ping-pan,  with  the  point  of  his 
spit,  so  very  cook-like  does  he  dish  up  his  remarks.  If  we  were  to  be 
castaway  upon  a  desert  island,  and  could  only  carry  one  book  ashore, 
we  should  take  care  to  secure  the  Cook's  Oracle  ;  for  let  victuals  be  ever 
so  scarce,  there  are  pages  in  that  erudite  book  that  are,  as  Congieve's 
Jere/ny  says,  "  a  feast  for  an  emperor."  Who  could  starve  with  such 
a  larder  of  reading  ? 

TO  CELIA* 

Old  fictions  say  that  Love  hath  eyes, 
Yet  sees,  unhappy  boy  !  with  none  ; 
Blind  as  the  night  !  but  fiction  lies, 
For  Love  doth  always  see  with  one. 

To  one  our  graces  all  unveil, 
To  one  our  flau  s  are  all  exposed  ; 
But  when  with  tenderness  we  hail. 
He  smiles  and  keeps  the  critic  closed. 

But  when  he's  scorn'd,  abused,  estranged^ 
He  opes  the  eye  of  evil  ken. 
And  aU  his  angel  friends  are  changed 
To  demons — and  are  hated  then ! 

Yet  once  it  happ'd  that,  semi- blind, 
He  met  thee  on  a  summer  day. 
And  took  thee  for  his  mother  kind, 
And  frown'd  as  he  was  push'd  away. 

But  still  he  saw  thee  shine  the  same, 
Though  he  had  oped  his  evil  eye, 
And  found  that  nothing  Ijut  her  sham© 
Was  left  to  know  his  mother  by  I 

*  London  Mngazinc,  April  1822. 


PRESENTIMENT.  i| 

And  ever  since  that  morning  sun, 
He  thinks  of  thee,  and  blesses  Fate 
That  he  can  look  witli  both  on  one 
Who  hath  no  ugliness  to  hate. 


PRESENTIMENT, 

A  FRAGMENT.* 

IF  a  ■mxa.  "has  a  little  child  to  whom  he  bows  his  heart  and  stretches 
forth  his  arms — if  he  has  an  only  son,  or  a  little  daughter, 
t\'ith  her  sweet  face  and  innocent  hands,  with  her  mother's  voice,  only 
louder — and  her  mother's  eyes,  only  brighter — let  him  go  and  caress 
them  while  they  are  his,  for  the  dead  possess  nothmg.  Let  him  put 
fondness  in  his  breath  while  it  is  with  him,  and  caress  his  babes  as  if 
they  would  be  fatherless,  and  blend  his  fingers  with  their  glossy  hair 
as  if  it  were  a  frail,  frail  gossamer.  And  if  he  be  away,  let  him  hasten 
homeward  with  his  impatient  spirit  before  him,  plotting  kisses  for  their 
lips  ;  but  if  he  be  far  distant,  let  him  read  my  story,  and  weep  and 
utter  fond  breath,  kissing  the  words  before  they  go,  wishing  that  they 
could  reach  his  chiklren's  ear.  And  yet  let  him  be  glad  ;  for  though 
he  is  beyond  seas,  he  is  still  near  them  while  Death  is  behind  him — 
for  the  greater  distance  swallows  the  less.  And  the  wings  of  angels 
may  waft  his  love  to  their  far-away  thoughts,  silently,  like  the  whisper- 
ings of  their  own  spirits  while  they  weep  for  their  father. 

It  was  in  the  days  of  my  bitterness,  when  care  had  bewildered  me, 
and  the  feverish  strife  of  this  world  had  vexed  me  till  I  was  mad,  that 
I  went  into  a  little  land  of  graves,  and  there  wept;  ;  for  my  sorrow  was 
deep  unto  darkness,  and  I  could  not  win  friendship  by  friendship,  nor 
love  (though  it  still  loved  me)  but  in  heaven — for  it  w.is  purer  than 
the  pure  air,  and  had  floated  up  to  God.  And  I  sat  down  upon  a 
tombstone  with  my  unburied  grief,  and  wondered  what  that  earth 
contained  of  joy,  and  misery,  and  triumph  long  past,  and  pride  lower 
than  nettles,  and  how  old  love  was  joined  to  love  again,  and  hate  was 
gone  to  hate.  For  there  were  many  monuments  with  sunshine  on  one 
side  and  shade  on  the  other,  like  life  and  death,  with  black  frowning 
letters  upon  their  white  bright  faces  ;  and  through  those  letters  one 
might  hear  the  dead  speaking  silently  and  slow,  for  there  was  much 
meaning  in  those  words,  and  mysteries  which  long  thought  could  not 
fathom.  And  there  was  dust  upon  those  flat  dwellings,  which  I  kissed, 
for  lips  like  it  were  there,  and  eyes  where  much  love  had  been,  and 
cheeks  that  had  warmed  the  sunshine.  But  the  dust  was  gone  in  a 
breath,  and  so  were  they  ;  and  the  wind  brought  shadows  that  passed 
and  passed  incessantly  over  that  land  of  graves,  which  you  might 
strive  to  stay,  but  could  not,  even  as  the  dead  had  passed  away  and 
been  missed  in  the  after  brightness. 

Thus  I  buried  my  thoughts  with  the  dead ;  and  as  I  sat,  uncon- 

*  London  Magazine,  Dec.  1822. 


rt  PRESENriMENT. 

iciously,  I  heard  the  sound  of  young  sweet  voices,  and.  looking  up,  1 
saw  two  little  children  coming  up  ihe  path.  The  lambs  lifted  up  theit 
heads  as  they  passed  and  gazed,  but  fed  again  without  stirring,  fol 
there  was  nothing  to  fear  from  such  innocent  looks  and  so  gentle 
voices  ;  there  was  even  a  melancholy  in  their  tone  which  does  not 
belong  to  childhood.  The  eldest  was  a  young  boy,  very  fair  and 
gentle,  with  a  little  hand  linked  to  his  ;  and,  by  his  talk,  it  seemed  that 
he  had  brought  his  sister  to  show  her  where  her  poor  father  lay,  and 
to  talk  about  Death.  Their  lips  seemed  too  rosy  and  tender  to 
utter  his  dreadful  name — but  the  word  was  empty  to  them,  and  un- 
meaning as  the  sound  of  a  shell — for  they  knew  him  not,  that  he  had 
kissed  them  before  they  were  born  or  breathed,  and  would  again  when 
the  time  came.  So  they  approached,  dew-dabbled,  and  struggling 
through  the  long-tangled  weeds  to  a  new  grave,  and  stood  before  it, 
and  gazed  on  its  record,  like  the  ignorant  sheep,  without  reading. 
They  did  not  see  their  father,  but  only  a  little  mound  of  earth,  with 
strange  grass  and  weeds  ;  and  they  looked  and  looked  again,  and  at 
each  other,  with  whispers  in  their  eyes,  and  listened,  till  the  flowers 
dropped  from  their  forgotten  hands.  And  when  1  saw  how  rosy  they 
were  in  that  black,  which  only  made  them  the  more  rosy,  and  their 
bright  curly  hair,  that  had  no  proud  hand  to  part  it,  I  thought  of  the 
yearnings  of  disembodied  love  and  mvisible  agony  that  had  no  voice, 
till  methought  their  father's  spirit  passed  into  mine,  and  burned,  and 
gazed  through  my  eyes  upon  his  children.  They  had  not  yet  seemed 
to  notice  me,  but  only  that  silent  grave  ;  and,  lookini^  more  and  more 
sadly,  their  eyes  filled  with  large  tears,  and  iheir  lips  drooped,  and 
their  heads  sunk  so  mournfully  and  so  comfortless,  that  my  own  grief 
rushed  into  my  eyes  and  hid  them  from  me.  And  I  said  inwardly,  I 
will  be  their  father,  and  wipe  their  blue  eyes,  and  win  their  sorrowful 
cheeks  into  dimples,  for  they  are  very  fair  and  young — too  young  for 
this  stormy  life.  1  will  watch  them  through  the  wide  world,  for  it  is 
a  cruel  place,  where  the  tenderest  are  most  torn  because  they  are 
tenderest,  and  the  most  beautiful  are  most  blighted.  Therefore  this 
little  one  shall  be  my  daughter,  that  1  may  gather  her  for  heaven  as 
my  best  deed  upon  earth  ;  and  this  young  boy  shall  be  my  son,  to 
share  my  blessing  when  I  die,  that  God  in  that  time  may  so  deal  with 
my  own  offspring.  For  1  feel  a  misgiving  that  1  shall  soon  die,  and 
that  my  own  little  ones  will  come  to  my  grave  and  weep  over  me, 
even  as  these  poor  orphans.  Oh  !  how  shall  I  leave  them  to  the  care 
of  the  careless — to  the  advice  of  the  winds — to  the  home  of  the 
wide  world  ?  And  as  I  thought  of  this,  the  full  tears  dropped 
from  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  again  the  two  children.  They  were  still 
there  and  weeping  ;  but  as  1  looked  at  them  more  earnestly,  I  per- 
ceived that  they  were  altered,  or  my  siglit  changed,  so  that  1  knew 
their  faces.  I  knew  them — for  I  had  seen  them  in  very  infancy,  and 
through  all  their  growth — in  sickness  when  I  prayed  over  them — 
and  in  slumber  when  I  had  watched  over  them  till  I  almost  wept, 
they  were  so  beautiful !  I  had  kissed,  how  often  !  those  very 
cheeks,  blushing  my  own  blood,  and  had  breathed  blessings  upon 
their  glossy  brows,  and  had  pressed  their  little  hands  in  ecstasies  oi 
anxious  love.     They  also  knew  me  ;  but  there  was  an  older  grief  is 


PRESENTIMENT.  17 

their  looks  than  had  ever  been  : — and  why  had  they  come  to  me  in 
that  place,  and  in  black,  so  sad  and  so  speechless,  and  with  flowers 
so  withering  ?  but  they  only  shook  their  heads  and  wept.  Then  I 
trembled  exceedingly,  and  stretched  out  my  arms  to  embrace  them, 
but  there  was  nothing  between  me  and  the  tombstone  where  they  had 
seemed :  yet  they  still  gazed  at  me  from  behind  it,  and  further  and 
still  further  as  I  followed,  till  they  stood  upon  the  verge  of  the  church- 
yard. Then  I  saw,  in  the  sunshine,  that  they  were  shadowless;  and, 
as  they  raised  their  hands  in  the  light,  that  no  blood  was  in  them; 
and  as  I  moved  btill  closer,  they  slowly  turned  into  trees,  and  hills, 
and  pale  blue  sky,  that  had  been  in  the  distance.  Still  I  gazed  where 
they  had  been,  and  the  sky  seemed  full  of  them  ;  but  there  were  only 
clouds,  and  the  shadows  on  the  earth  were  merely  shadows,  and 
the  rustling  was  the  rustling  of  the  sheep.  I  saw  them  no  more. 
They  were  gone  from  me,  as  if  for  ever  ;  but  I  knew  that  this  was 
my  warning,  and  wept,  for  it  came  to  me  through  my  own  children 
in  all  its  bitterness.  I  felt  that  I  should  leave  them  as  I  had  fore- 
told— their  hearts,  and  lips,  and  sweet  voices,  to  one  another,  to  be 
their  own  comfort  ;  for  I  knew  that  such  grief  is  prophetic  of  grief, 
and  that  angels  so  minister  to  man,  and  that  Death  thus  converses 
in  spirit  with  his  elect.  So  1  spread  my  arms  to  the  world  in 
farewell,  and  weaned  my  eyes  from  all  things  that  had  been  pleasant 
on  the  earth,  and  would  be  so  after  me,  and  prepared  myself  for  her 
ready  bosom.  And  I  said,  "  Now  1  will  go  home  and  kiss  my  children 
before  I  die,  and  put  a  life's  love  into  my  last  hour;  for  I  must 
hasten  while  my  thou;7hts  are  with  me,  lest  I  madden,  and  perhaps 
wrong  them  in  my  delirium,  and  spurn  their  sorrowful  love,  and 
curse  them,  instead  of  blessing,  with  a  fierce  strange  voice."  Thus 
I  hurried  towards  them  faster  and  faster  till  I  ran  ;  but  as  my  desire 
increased,  my  strength  failed  me,  so  that  I  wished  for  my  death-bed, 
and  threw  myself  down  on  a  green  hill,  under  the  shade  of  trees 
that  almost  hid  the  sky  with  their  intricate  branches.  And  as  I  lay, 
the  thought  of  death  came  over  me  as  death,  with  a  deep  gloom  like 
the  shade  of  a  darkened  chamber,  and  blinded  me  to  the  trees,  and 
the  sky,  and  the  grass,  that  were  round  me.  But  a  pale  light  came,  as 
I  thought,  through  the  pierced  shutters,  and  I  saw  by  it  strange  and 
familiar  faces  full  of  grief,  and  eyes  that  watched  mine  for  the  last 
look,  and  tiptoe  figures  gliding  silently  with  clasped  hands — and  a 
woman  that  chafed  my  feet  ;  and  as  she  seemed  to  chafe  them,  she 
turned  to  shake  her  head,  and  tears  gushed  into  all  eyes  as  if  they  had 
been  one,  so  that  I  seemed  drowned,  and  could  see  nothing  except 
their  shadows  in  the  light  of  my  own  spirit.  In  that  moment  I  heard 
the  cries  of  my  own  children,  calling  to  me  fainter 'and  fainter,  as  if 
they  died  and  1  could  not  save  them  ;  and  1  tried  to  stay  them,  but  my 
tongue  v;as  lifeless  in  my  mouth,  and  my  breath  seemed  locked  up  in 
my  bosom  :  and  I  thought,  "  Surely  I  now  die,  and  the  last  of  my  soul 
is  in  my  ears,  for  I  still  hear,  though  I  see  not  ; "  but  the  voices  were 
soon  drowned  in  a  noise  like  the  rushing  of  waters,  for  the  blood  was 
struggling  through  my  heart,  slower  and  slower,  till  it  stopped,  and  I 
turned  so  cold,  that  I  felt  the  burning  of  the  air  upon  me,  and  the 
scalding  of  unknown  tears.     Yet  for  a  moment  the  light  returned  to 

fi 


X8  PRESENTIMENT. 

me,  with  those  mourners — for  they  were  already  in  black,  even  thelf 
faces  ;  but  they  turned  darker  and  darker,  and  whirled  round  into  ontk 
shade  till  it  was  utterly  dark :  and  as  my  breath  went  forth,  the  air 
pressed  heavy  upon  me,  so  that  I  seemed  buried,  and  in  my  deep 
grave,  and  suffering  the  pain  of  worms  till  I  was  all  consumed  and  no 
more  conscious.  Thus  I  lay  for  unknown  time,  and  without  thought ; 
and  again  awakening,  I  saw  a  dark  figure  bending  over  me,  and  felt 
him  grasp  me  till  I  ached  in  all  my  bones.  Then  I  asked  him  if  he 
was  Death  or  an  angel,  and  if  he  had  brought  me  wings  ?  for  I  could 
not  see  plainly  ;  but  as  my  senses  returned,  I  knew  an  intimate  friend 
and  neighbour,  and  recognised  the  sound  of  his  voice.  He  had  thus 
found  me,  he  said,  in  passing,  and  had  seen  me  faint,  and  had 
recovered  me ;  but  not  till  he  had  almost  wrung  the  blood  from  my 
fingers  ;  and  he  inquired  the  cause  of  my  distress.  So  I  thanked  him, 
and  told  him  of  my  vision,  and  he  tried  to  comfort  me  :  but  1  knew 
that  the  angels  of  my  children  had  told  me  truly,  and  the  more  so  for 
this  shadow  of  Death  that  I  had  passed  ;  and  feeling  that  my  hour 
was  near,  and  recollecting  my  home,  I  endeavoured  to  rise.  But 
my  strength  was  gone,  and  I  fell  backwards  ;  till  fear,  which  had  first 
taken  away  my  strength,  restored  it  tenfold,  and  I  descended  the  hill, 
and  hurried  onwards  before  my  friend,  who  could  not  keep  up  with  me. 

When  I  had  gone  a  little  way,  however,  the  road  was  of  deep  sand, 
so  that  I  grew  impatient  of  my  steps,  and  wished  for  the  speed  of 
a  horse  that  I  heard  galloping  before  me.  Even  as  I  heard  it,  the 
horse  suddenly  turned  an  angle  of  the  road,  and  came  running  with 
all  the  madness  of  fright,  plunging  and  scattering  the  loose  sand  from 
his  fiery  heels.  As  he  came  nearer,  I  thouglit  I  saw  a  rider  upon  his 
back — it  was  only  fancy  ;  but  he  looked  like  Death,  and  very  terrible, 
for  I  knew  that  he  was  coming  to  tear  me  and  trample  me  under  his 
horse's  hoofs,  and  carry  me  away  for  ever,  so  that  I  should  never  see 
my  children  again.  At  that  thought  my  soul  fainted  within  me  with- 
out his  touch,  and  my  breath  went  from  me,  so  that  I  could  not  stir 
even  from  Death,  though  he  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  could  see 
him  frown  through  the  black  tossing  mane.  In  a  moment  he  was 
close  ;  the  wild  foaming  horse  struck  at  me  with  his  furious  heels — so 
that  the  loose  sand  flew  up  in  my  bosom — reared  his  head  disdain- 
fully, and  flew  past  me  with  the  rush  of  a  whirlwind.  The  fiend 
grinned  upon  me  as  he  passed,  and  tossed  his  arms  in  an  ecstasy  of 
triumjih  ;  but  he  left  me  untouched,  and  the  noise  soon  died  away 
behind  me.  Then  a  warm  joy  trembled  over  my  limbs,  and  I  hurried 
forward  again  with  an  hour's  hope  of  life.  My  heart's  beat  quickened 
my  feet,  and  I  soon  reached  the  corner  where  I  had  first  seen  the 
horse  ;  but  there  I  stopped— it  was  only  a  low  moan — but  my  heart 
stopped  with  it.  In  another  throb  I  was  with  my  children,  and  in 
another — they  were  with  God.  I  saw  .heir  eyes  before  they  closed—" 
but  my  son's 

How  it  happened  I  have  never  asked,  or  have  forgotten.  I  only 
know  that  I  had  children,  and  that  they  are  dead.  Now  I  have  only 
tneir  angels.  They  still  visit  me  in  the  churchyard  ;  but  their  eyes 
are  closed,  and  their  little  locks  drop  blood — ihey  still  shrink,  and 
faint,  and  fade  away — but  still  I  die  not !  INCOG. 


MR  MARTIN'S  PICTURES,  ETC.  If 


MR  MARTIN'S  PICTURES  AND  THE  BONASSUS* 

A  LETTER  FROM  MRS  WINIFRED  LLOYD  TO  HER  FRIEND  MRS  PRICE,  AT 
THE  PARSONAGE  HOUSE  AT ,   IN   MONMOUTHSHIRE. 

MY  DEAR  MRS  PRICE,  — This  is  to  let  you  know  that  me 
and  13ecky  and  Httle  Humphry  are  safe  arrived  in  London, 
where  we  have  been  since  Monday.  My  darter  is  quite  inchanted 
with  the  metropalus  and  longs  to  be  intraduced  to  it  satiety,  which 
please  God  she  shall  be  as  soon  as  things  are  ready  to  make  her  de- 
butt  in.  It  is  high  time  now  she  should  be  brought  into  the  world 
being  twenty  years  old  cum  Midsummer  and  very  big  for  her  size.  You 
knows,  Mrs  Price,  that  with  her  figure  and  accumplishments  she  was 
quite  berried  in  Wales,  but  I  hopes  when  the  country  is  scowered  off 
she  will  shine  as  bright  as  the  best  and  make  a  rare  havoc  among 
the  mail  sex.  She  has  lamed  the  pinaforte  and  to  draw,  and  does 
flowers  and  shells,  as  Mr  Owen  says,  to  a  mirrikle,  for  I  spares  no 
munny  on  her  to  make  her  fit  for  any  gentleman's  wife,  when  he  shall 
please  to  ax  her.  I  took  her  the  other  day  to  the  Bullock's  Museum 
to  see  Mr  Martin's  expedition  of  picters — because  she  has  such  a 
pretty  notion  of  painting  herself— and  a  very  nice  site  it  was,  thof  it 
cost  half-a-crovvn.  I  tried  to  get  the  children  in  for  half-price  but  the 
man  said  that  Becky  was  a  full-grown  lady,  and  so  she  is  sure  enuff,  so 
I  could  only  beat  him  down  to  take  a  sixpence  off  little  Humphry. 

The  picters  are  hung  in  a  parler  up-stairs  (Becky  calls  it  a  drawing- 
room)  and  you  see  about  a  dozen  for  your  munny  which  brings  it  to 
about  a  penny  a  piece,  and  that  is  not  dear.  The  first  on  the  left  hand 
as  you  go  in — and  on  the  right  coming  out — is  called  Revenge.  It 
reperesents  a  man  and  woman  with  a  fire  breaking  out  at  their  backs — 
Becky  thought  it  was  the  fire  of  London — but  the  show  gentleman  said 
it  was  Troy  that  was  burned  out  of  revenge,  so  that  was  a  very  good 
thought  to  paint.  Then  there  was  Bellshazzer's  Feast  as  you  read  of 
it  in  the  Bible,  with  Daniel  interrupting  the  handwriting  on  the  wall— 
with  the  cunning  men  and  the  king  and  all  the  nobility.  Becky  said  she 
never  saw  such  bewtiful  painting — and  sure  enuff  they  were  the  finest 
cullers  I  ever  set  eyes  on,  blews  and  pmks,  and  purples  and  greens,  all  as 
bright  as  fresh  sattin  and  velvet,  and  no  doubt  they  had  court  sutes  all 
span  new  for  the  Banket.  As  for  Humphry  there  was  no  getting  him 
from  a  picter  of  the  Welsh  Bard  because  he  knew  the  ballad  about  it 
and  saw  the  whole  core  of  Captain  Edwards's  sogers  coming  down  the 
hill,  with  their  waggin  train  and  all,  quite  natural.  To  be  sure  their 
cullers  were  very  bewtiful,  but  there  was  so  many  mountings  piled  atop 
of  one  another  and  some  going  out  of  sight  into  heaven  that  it  made 
my  neck  ake  to  look  after  them.  Next  to  that  there  was  a  storm  in 
Babylon,tbut  not  half  so  well  painted,  Becky  said,  as  the  rest.  There 
was  none  hardly  of  those  smart  bright  cullers,  only  a  bunch  of  flowers 

*  London  Magazine,  May  1822. 

t  The  Storming  of  Babylon  :  Mrs  Lloyd  mus*  have  gjt  her  catalogue  bj 
hearsay. 


«0  MR  MARTIN'S  PICTURES,  ETC. 

in  a  garden,  that  Becky  said  would  look  bewtiful  on  a  chaney  teacup, 
Howsomever  some  gentlemen  looked  at  it  a  long  while  and  called  it 
clever  and  said  they  prefeared  his  architecter  work  to  his  painting  and 
he  makes  very  handsum  bildings  for  sartain.  They  said  too  that  this 
picter  was  quieter  than  all  the  rest — but  how  that  can  be,  God  he 
knows,  for  I  could  not  hear  a  pin's  difference  betwixt  them — and  be- 
sides that  it  was  in  better  keeping  which  I  suppose  means  it  is  sold  to 
a  Lord.  The  next  was  only  a  lady  very  well  dressed  and  walking  in  a 
landskip.  But  oh,  Mrs  Price,  how  shall  I  tell  you  about  the  burning 
of  Hercaleum  !  Becky  said  it  put  her  in  mind  of  what  is  written  in 
the  Revealations  about  the  sky  being  turned  to  blood,  and  indeed  it 
seemed  to  take  all  the  culler  out  of  her  face  when  she  looked  at  it.  It 
looked  as  if  all  the  world  was  going  to  be  burnt  to  death  with  a  shower 
of  live  coals  !  Oh  dear  !  to  see  the  poor  things  running  about  in  sich  an 
earthquack  as  threw  the  pillers  off  their  legs — and  all  the  men  of  war 
in  distress,  beating  their  bottoms,  and  going  to  rack  and  ruin  in  the 
arbour !  It  is  a  shocking  site  to  see  only  in  a  picter,  with  so  many 
people  in  silks  and  sattins  and  velvets  having  their  things  so  scorched 
and  burnt  into  holes  !  Oh  Mrs  Price  !  what  a  mercy  we  was  not  born 
in  Vesuvus  and  there  are  no  burning  mountings  in  Wales.'  —  only 
think  to  be  holding  our  sheelds  over  our  heads  to  keep  off  the  hot 
sinders,  and  almost  suffercated  to  death  with  brimstun.  It  puts  one 
in  a  shiver  to  think  of  it. 

There  is  another  picter  of  a  burning  mounting  with  Zadok*  hang- 
ing upon  a  rock — Becky  knows  the  story  and  shall  tell  it  you — but  it 
looked  nothing  after  the  other,  though  the  criketal  gentlemen  you 
knows  of,  said  it  was  a  much  better  painting.  But  there  is  no  saying 
for  people's  tastes — as  Mr  Owen  says,  the  world  does  not  dine  upon 
one  dinner — but  I  have  forgot  one  more,  and  that  is  Mac  Beth  and  the 
three  Whiches,  with  such  a  rigiment  of  H  danders  that  I  wonder  how 
they  got  into  one  picter.  Becky  says  the  band  ought  to  be  playing  bag 
Pipes  instead  of  Kittle  drums,  but  no  doubt  Mr  Martin  knows  better 
than  Becky,  and  I  am  sure  from  what  I  have  heard  in  the  North  that 
either  Kittles  or  Drums  would  sound  better  than  bag  Pipes. 

We  are  going  to-morrow  to  the  play,  and  any  other  sites  we  may  see 
you  shall  hear.  Till  then  give  my  respective  complements  to  Mr  Price 
with  a  kiss  from  Becky  and  Humphry  and  remane, 

Your  faithful  humble  servant 

Winifred  Lloyd. 

P.S. — I  forgot  to  say  that  after  we  had  seen  Mr  Martins  expedition, 
we  went  from  the  Bullock's  to  the  Bonassus — as  it  is  but  a  step  from 
wan  to  the  other.  The  man  says  it  is  a  perfect  picter,  and  so  it  is  for 
sartain  and  ought  to  be  painted.  It  is  like  a  bull,  only  quite  different, 
and  cums  from  the  Appellation  Mountings.  My  Humphry  thought 
it  must  have  been  catcht  in  a  pound,  and  I  wundered  the  child  could 
make  sich  a  nateral  idear,  but  he  is  a  sweet  boy  and  very  foreward  in 
his  laming.  He  was  eyely  delited  at  the  site  you  may  be  sure,  but 
Becky  being  timorsome  shut  her  eyes  all  the  time  she  was  seeing  iu 

*  Mrs  Lloyd  means  Sadak,  in  the  "Tales  of  the  Genii." 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  •! 

But  saving  his  pushing  now  and  then,  the  anymil  is  no  ways  veracious 
and  eats  nothing  but  vegeatables.  The  man  showed  us  some  outland- 
ish sort  of  pees  that  it  Hves  upon  but  he  give  it  two  hole  pales  of  rare 
carrots  besides.  It  must  be  a  handsum  customer  to  the  green  Grocer 
and  a  pretty  penny  I  warrant  it  costs  for  vittles.  But  it  is  a  wonder- 
ful work  of  Natur,  and  ought  to  make  man  look  to  his  ways  as  Mr 
Lloyd  says.  Which  of  our  infiddles  could  make  a  Bonassus,  let  them 
tell  me  that,  Mrs  Price!  I  would  have  carried  him  home  in  my  eye  to 
describe  to  you  and  Mr  Price,  but  we  met  Mrs  Striker  the  butcher's 
lady  and  she  drove  him  quite  out  of  my  head.  Howsomever  as  you 
likes  curosities  I  shall  send  his  playbill  that  knows  more  about  him 
than  I  do,  though  there's  nothing  like  seeing  him  with  wan's  own  eyes. 
I  think  if  the  man  would  take  him  down  to  Monmouth  in  a  carry  van 
he  would  get  a  good  many  haperce  by  showing  him.  Till  then  I  re- 
inane  once  more  Your  faithful  humble  sarvant 

Winifred  Lloyd. 


THE  TWO  SWANS, 

A   FAIRY  TALE.* 

Immortal  Imogen,  crown'd  queen  above 
The  lilies  of  thy  sex,  vouchsafe  to  hear 
A  fairy  dream  in  honour  of  true  love — 
True  above  ills,  and  frailty,  and  all  fear- 
Perchance  a  shadow  of  his  own  career 
Whose  youth  was  darkly  prison'd  and  long  twined 
By  serpent-sorrow,  till  white  Love  drew  near, 
And  sweetly  sang  him  free,  and  round  his  mind 
A  bright  horizon  threw,  wherein  no  grief  may  wind. 

I  saw  a  tower  builded  on  a  lake, 
Mock'd  by  its  inverse  shadow,  dark  and  deep- 
That  seem'd  a  still  intenser  night  to  make, 
Wherein  the  quiet  waters  sunk  to  sleep, — 
And,  whatsoe'er  was  prison'd  in  that  keep, 
A  monstrous  Snake  was  warden  : — round  and  round 
In  sable  ringlets  I  beheld  him  creep. 
Blackest  amid  black  shadows,  to  the  ground, 
Whilst  his  enormous  head  the  topmost  turret  crown'd  t 

From  whence  he  shot  fierce  light  against  the  stars, 
Making  the  pale  moon  paler  with  affright ; 
And  with  his  ruby  eye  out-threaten'd  Mars — 
That  blazed  in  the  mid-heavens,  hot  and  bright-— 
Nor  slept,  nor  wink'd,  but  with  a  steadfast  spite 

*  New  Monthly  Magazine,  1824. 


THE  TWO  SWANS. 

Watch'd  their  wan  looks  and  tremblings  in  the  skies  ; 

And  that  he  might  not  slumber  in  the  night, 
The  curtain-lids  were  pluck'd  from  his  large  eyes. 
So  he  might  never  drowse,  but  watch  his  secret  prize. 

Prince  or  princess  in  dismal  durance  pent. 
Victims  of  old  Enchantment's  love  or  hate, 
Their  lives  must  all  in  painful  sighs  be  spent, 
Watching  the  lonely  waters  soon  and  late, 
And  clouds  that  pass  and  leave  them  to  their  fat^ 
Or  company  their  grief  with  heavy  tears  : — 
Meanwhile  that  Hope  can  spy  no  golden  gate 
For  sweet  escapement,  but  in  darksome  fears 
They  weep  and  pine  away  as  if  immortal  years. 

No  gentle  bird  with  gold  upon  its  wing 
Will  perch  upon  the  grate — the  gentle  bird 
Is  safe  in  leafy  dell,  and  will  not  bring 
Freedom's  sweet  keynote  and  commission-word 
Learn'd  of  a  fairy's  lips,  for  pity  stirr'd — 
Lest  while  he  trembling  sings,  untimely  guest  I 
Watch'd  by  that  cruel  Snake  and  darkly  heard, 
He  leave  a  widow  on  her  lonely  nest. 
To  press  in  silent  grief  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 

No  gallant  knight,  adventurous,  in  his  bark, 
Will  seek  the  fruitful  perils  of  the  place. 
To  rouse  with  dipping  oar  the  waters  dark 
That  bear  that  serpent-image  on  their  face. 
And  Love,  brave  Love  !  though  he  attempt  the  bas^ 
Nerved  to  his  loyal  death,  he  may  not  win 
His  captive  lady  from  the  strict  embrace 
Of  that  foul  Serpent,  clasping  her  within 
His  sable  folds — like  Eve  enthrall'd  by  the  old  Sid. 

But  there  is  none — no  knight  in  panoply, 
Nor  Love,  entrench'd  in  his  strong  steely  coat : 
No  little  speck — no  sail — no  helper  nigh. 
No  sign — no  whispering — no  plash  of  boat  :— 
The  distant  shores  show  dimly  and  remote, 
Made  of  a  deeper  mist, — serene  and  grey, — 
And  slow  and  mute  the  cloudy  shadows  float 
Over  the  gloomy  wave,  and  pass  away. 
Chased  by  the  silver  beams  that  on  their  marges  play. 

And  bright  and  silvery  the  willows  sleep 

Over  the  shady  verge — no  mad  winds  tease 

Their  hoary  heads  ;  but  quietly  they  weep 

Their  sprinkling  leaves — half  fountains  and  half  treet  I 

There  lilies  be — and  fairer  than  all  these, 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  n 

A  solitary  Swan  her  breast  of  snow 
Launches  against  the  wave  that  seems  to  freeze 
Into  a  chaste  reflection,  still  below, 
Twin-shadow  of  herself  wherever  she  may  go. 

And  forth  she  paddles  in  the  very  noon 
Of  solemn  midnight,  like  an  elfin  thing 
Charm'd  into  being  by  the  argent  moon — 
Whose  silver  light  for  love  of  her  fair  wing 
Goes  with  her  in  the  shade,  still  worshippingf 
Her  dainty  plumage  : — all  around  her  grew  , 

A  radiant  circlet,  like  a  fairy  ring  ; 
And  all  behind,  a  tiny  little  clue 
Of  light,  to  guide  her  back  across  the  waters  blue. 

And  sure  she  is  no  meaner  than  a  fay 
Redeem'd  from  sleepy  death,  for  beauty's  sake^ 
By  old  ordainment  : — silent  as  she  lay, 
Touch'd  by  a  moonlight  wand  I  saw  her  wake, 
And  cut  her  leafy  slough,  and  so  forsake 
The  verdant  prison  of  her  lily  peers. 
That  slept  amidst  the  stars  upon  the  lake— 
A  breathing  shape — restored  to  human  fears, 
And  new-born  love  and  grief— self-conscious  of  her  teara. 

And  now  she  clasps  her  wings  around  her  hearty 
And  near  that  lonely  isle  begins  to  glide. 
Pale  as  her  fears,  and  oft-times  with  a  start 
Turns  her  impatient  head  from  side  to  side 
In  universal  terrors — all  too  wide 
To  watch  ;  and  often  to  that  marble  keep 
Upturns  her  pearly  eyes,  as  if  she  spied 
Some  foe,  and  crouches  in  the  shadows  steep 
That  in  the  gloomy  wave  go  diving  fathoms  deep. 

And  well  she  may,  to  spy  that  fearful  thing 
All  down  the  dusky  walls  in  circlets  wound  ; 
Alas  !  for  what  rare  prize,  with  many  a  ring 
Girding  the  marble  casket  round  and  round? 
His  folded  tail,  lost  in  the  gloom  profound, 
Terribly  darkeneth  the  rocky  base  ;  ■ 
But  on  the  top  his  monstrous  head  is  crown'd 
With  prickly  spears,  and  on  his  doubtful  face 
Gleam  his  unwearied  eyes,  red  watchers  of  the  plac<t 

Alas  !  of  the  hot  fires  that  nightly  fall, 

No  one  will  scorch  him  in  those  orbs  of  spite. 

So  he  may  never  see  beneath  the  wall 

That  timid  little  creature,  all  too  bright, 

That  stretches  her  fair  neck,  slender  and  white, 


THE  TWO  SWANS. 

Invoking  the  pale  moon,  and  vainly  tries 
Her  throbbing  throat,  as  if  to  charm  the  night 
With  song — but,  hush — it  perishes  in  sighs. 
And  there  will  be  no  dirge  sad-sweUing,  though  she  Jies  S 

She  droops — she  sinks— she  leans  upon  the  lake, 
Fainting  again  into  a  lifeless  flower  ; 
But  soon  the  chilly  springs  anoint  and  wake 
Her  spirit  from  its  death,  and  with  new  power 
She  sheds  her  stifled  sorrows  in  a  shower 
Of  tender  song,  timed  to  her  falling  tears — 
That  wins  the  shady  summit  of  that  tower, 
And,  trembling  all  the  sweeter  for  its  fears, 
Fills  with  imploring  moan  that  cruel  monsters  ear* 

And,  lo  !  the  scaly  beast  is  all  deprest, 
Subdued  like  Argus  by  the  might  of  sound— 
What  time  Apollo  his  sweet  lute  addrest 
To  magic  converse  with  the  air,  and  bound 
The  many  monster  eyes,  all  slumber-drown'd  :— 
So  on  the  turret-top  that  watchful  Snake 
Pillows  his  giant  head,  and  lists  profound, 
As  if  his  wrathful  spite  would  never  wake, 
Charmed  into  sudden  sleep  for  Love  and  Beauty's  sake  I 

His  prickly  crest  lies  prone  upon  his  crown, 
And  thirsty  lip  from  lip  disparted  flies. 
To  drink  that  dainty  flood  of  music  down— 
His  scaly  throat  is  big  with  pent-up  sighs— 
And  whilst  his  hollow  ear  entranced  lies, 
His  looks  for  envy  of  the  charmed  sense 
Are  fain  to  listen,  till  his  steadfast  eyes. 
Stung  into  pain  by  their  own  impotence, 
Distil  enormous  tears  into  the  lake  immense^ 

Oh,  tuneful  Swan  !  oh,  melancholy  bird ! 
Sweet  was  that  midnight  miracle  of  song. 
Rich  with  ripe  sorrow,  needful  of  no  woVd 
To  tell  of  pain,  and  love,  and  love's  deep  wrong- 
Hinting  a  piteous  tale— perchance  how  long 
Thy  unknown  tears  were  mingled  with  the  lake. 
What  time  disguised  thy  leafy  mates  among — 
And  no  eye  knew  what  human  love  and  ache 
Dwelt  in  those  dewy  leaves,  and  heart  so  nigh  to  breal^ 

Therefore  no  poet  will  ungently  touch 

The  water-lily,  on  whose  eyelids  dew 

Trembles  like  tears  ;  but  ever  hold  it  such 

As  human  pain  may  wander  through  and  through, 

Turning  the  pale  leaf  paler  in  its  hue — 


THE  TWO  SWANS.  %\ 

Wherein  life  dwells,  transfigured,  not  entomb'd, 
By  magic  spells.     Alas  !  who  ever  knew 
Sorrow  in  all  its  shapes,  leafy  and  plumed, 
Or  in  gross  husks  of  brutes  eternally  inhumed  ? 

And  now  the  winged  song  has  scaled  the  height 
Of  that  dark  dwelling,  builded  for  despair, 
And  soon  a  little  casement  flashing  bright 
Widens  self-open'd  into  the  cool  air — 
That  music  like  a  bird  may  enter  there 
And  soothe  the  captive  in  his  stony  cage  ; 
For  there  is  nought  of  grief,  or  painful  care, 
But  plaintive  song  may  happily  engage 
From  sense  of  its  own  ill,  and  tenderly  assuage, 

And  forth  into  the  light,  small  and  remote, 
A  creature,  like  the  fair  son  of  a  king, 
Draws  to  the  lattice  in  his  jewell'd  coat 
Against  the  silver  moonlii^ht  glistening, 
And  leans  upon  his  white  hand  listening 
To  that  sweet  music  that  with  tenderer  tone 
Salutes  him,  wondering  what  kindly  thing 
Is  come  to  soothe  him  with  so  tuneful  moan, 
Singing  beneath  the  walls  as  if  for  him  alone  ! 

And  while  he  listens,  the  mysterious  song, 
Woven  with  timid  particles  of  speech. 
Twines  into  passionate  words  that  grieve  along 
The  melancholy  notes,  and  softly  teach 
The  secrets  of  true  love, — that  trembling  reach 
His  earnest  ear,  and  through  the  shadows  dun 
He  missions  like  replies,  and  each  to  each 
Their  silver  voices  mingle  into  one, 
Like  blended  streams  that  make  one  music  as  they  run. 

"  Ah  Love  !  my  hope  is  swooning  in  my  heart." — 
**  Av,  sweet  !   my  cage  is  strong  and  hung  full  high."— 
"  Alas  !  our  lips  are  held  so  far  apart, 
Thy  words  come  faint, — they  have  so  far  to  fly  l"— 
"  If  I  may  only  shun  that  ser[)ent-eye  !" — 
"  Ah  me  !  that  serpent-eye  doth  never  sleep." — 
"  Then  nearer  thee,  Love's  martyr,  I  will  die  ! "— • 
"  Alas,  alas  !  that  word  has  made  me  weep ! 
For  pity's  sake  remain  safe  in  thy  marble  keep  !" 

**  My  marble  keep  !  it  is  my  marble  tomb  !  " — 

**  Nay,  sweet  !  but  thou  hast  there  thy  living  breath".— 

**  A}  e  to  expend  in  sighs  for  this  hard  doom." — 

"  But  I  will  come  to  thee  and  sing  beneath. 

And  nightly  so  beguile  this  serpent  wreath."— 


THE  TWO  SWANS. 

"  Nay,  I  will  find  a  path  from  these  despairs." — 
"  Ah  !  needs  then  thou  must  tread  the  back  of  death, 
Making  his  stony  ribs  thy  stony  stairs  ? — 
Behold  his  ruby  eye,  how  fearfully  it  glares  !" 

Full  sudden  at  these  words,  the  princely  youth 
Leaps  on  the  scaly  back  that  slumbers,  still 
Unconscious  of  his  foot,  yet  not  for  ruth, 
But  numb'd  to  dulness  by  the  fairy  skill 
Of  that  sweet  music  (all  more  wild  and  shrill 
For  intense  fear)  that  charm'd  him  as  he  lay- 
Meanwhile  the  lover  nerves  his  desperate  will, 
Held  some  short  throbs  by  natural  dismay. 
Then  down,  down  the  serpent-track  begins  his  darksome  wayi 

Now  dimly  seen — now  toiling  out  of  sight, 
Eclipsed  and  cover'd  by  the  envious  wall ; 
Now  fair  and  spangled  in  the  sudden  light, 
And  clinging  with  wide  arms  for  fear  of  fall  t 
Now  dark  and  shelter'd  by  a  kindly  pall 
Of  dusky  shadow  from  his  wakeful  foe  ; 
Slowly  he  winds  adown — dimly  and  small, 
Watch'd  by  the  gentle  Swan  that  sings  below, 
Her  hope  increasing,  still,  the  larger  he  doth  grow. 

But  nine  times  nine  the  serpent  folds  embrace 
The  marble  walls  about — which  he  must  tread 
Before  his  anxious  foot  may  touch  the  base  : 
Long  is  the  dreary  path,  and  must  be  sped  ! 
But  Love,  that  holds  the  mastery  of  dread, 
Braces  his  spirit,  and  with  constant  toil 
He  wins  his  way,  and  now,  with  arms  outspread. 
Impatient  plunges  from  the  last  long  coil : 
So  may  all  gentle  Love  ungentle  Malice  foil ! 

The  song  is  hush'd,  the  charm  is  all  complete, 
And  two  fair  Swans  are  swimming  on  the  lake  i 
But  scarce  their  tender  bills  have  time  to  meet, 
"When  fiercely  drops  adown  that  cruel  Snake^ 
His  steely  scales  a  fearful  rustling  make. 
Like  autumn  leaves  that  tremble  and  foretell 
The  sable  storm  ; — the  plumy  lovers  quake— 
And  feel  the  troubled  waters  pant  and  swell, 
Heaved  by  the  giant  bulk  of  their  pursuer  fell. 

His  jaws,  wide  yawning  like  the  gates  of  Death, 

Hiss  horrible  pursuit — his  red  eyes  glare 

The  waters  into  blood— his  eager  breath 

Grows  hot  upon  their  plumes  : — now,  minstrel  fair  I 

She  drops  her  ring  into  the  waves,  and  there 


PROSPECT  OF  CLAPHAM  ACADEMY, 

It  widens  all  around,  a  fairy  ring 
Wrought  of  the  silver  light — the  fearful  pair 
Swim  in  the  very  midst,  and  pant  and  cling 
The  closer  for  their  fears,  and  tremble  wing  to  wing. 

Bending  their  course  over  the  pale  grey  lake, 
Against  the  pallid  East,  wherein  light  play'd 
In  tender  flushes,  still  the  baffled  Snake 
Circled  them  round  continually,  and  bay'd 
Hoarsely  and  loud,  forbidden  to  invade 
The  sanctuary  ring  :  his  sable  mail 
RoU'd  darkly  through  the  flood,  and  writhed  and  mad« 
A  shining  track  over  the  waters  pale, 
Lash'd  into  boiling  foam  by  his  enormous  tail. 

And  so  they  sail'd  into  the  distance  dim, 
Into  the  very  distance — small  and  white, 
Like  snowy  blossoms  of  the  spring  that  swim 
Over  the  brooklets — foUow'd  by  the  spite 
Of  that  huge  Serpent,  that  with  wild  affright 
Worried  them  on  their  course,  and  sore  annoy. 
Till  on  the  grassy  marge  I  saw  them  'light, 
And  change,  anon,  a  gentle  girl  and  boy, 
Lock'd  in  embrace  of  sweet  unutterable  joy  1 

Then  came  the  Morn,  and  with  her  pearly  showers 
Wept  on  them,  like  a  mother,  in  whose  eyes 
Tears  are  no  grief;  and  from  his  rosy  bowers 
The  Oriental  sun  began  to  rise, 
Cnasing  the  darksome  shadows  from  the  skies  J 
Wherewith  that  sable  Serpent  far  away 
Fled,  like  a  part  of  night— delicious  sighs 
From  waking  blossoms  purified  the  day. 
And  little  birds  were  singing  sweetly  from  each  spray. 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  CLAPHAM 
ACADEMY* 

Ah  me  !  those  old  familiar  bounds  ! 
That  classic  house,  those  classic  grounds^ 

My  pensive  thought  recalls  ! 
What  tender  urchins  now  confine, 
What  little  captives  now  repine, 

Within  yon  irksome  walls  ? 

•  New  Monthly  Magazine,  1824, 


ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT 

Ay,  that's  the  very  house  !     I  know 
Its  ugly  windows,  ten  a-row  ! 

Its  chimneys  in  the  rear  ! 
And  there's  the  iron  rod  so  high, 
That  drew  the  thunder  from  the  sky, 

And  turn'd  our  table-beer  ! 

There  I  was  birch'd  !  there  I  was  bred  I 
There  hke  a  little  Adam  fed 

From  Learning's  woful  tree  ! 
The  weary  tasks  I  used  to  con  !— 
The  hopeless  leaves  I  wept  upon  !— 

Most  fruitless  leaves  to  me  ! — 

The  summon'd  class  ! — the  aweful  bow  !— 
I  wonder  who  is  master  now 

And  wholesome  anguish  sheds  1 
How  many  ushers  now  employs, 
How  many  maids  to  see  the  boys 

Have  nothing  in  their  heads  ! 

And  Mrs  S ?— Doth  she  abet 

(Like  Pallas  in  the  parlour)  yet 

Some  favour'd  two  or  three,— 
TWe  little  Crichtons  of  the  hour, 
Her  muffin-medals  that  devour, 

And  swill  her  prize — Bohea  ? 

Ay,  there's  the  playground  !  there's  the  limc^ 
Beneath  whose  shade  in  summer's  prime 

So  wildly  I  have  read  ! — 
Who  sits  there  now,  and  skims  the  cream 
Cf  young  Romance,  and  weaves  a  dream 

Of  Love  and  Cottage-bread  ? 

Who  struts  the  Randall  of  the  walk  ? 
Who  models  tiny  heads  in  chalk? 

Who  scoops  the  light  canoe  ? 
What  early  genius  buds  apace  ? 
Where's  Poynter?  Harris?  Bowers?  Chase? 

Hal  Baylis  ?  blithe  Carew  ? 

Alack  !  they're  gone — a  thousand  ways ! 
And  some  are  serving  in  "  the  Greys," 

And  some  have  perish'd  young  ! — 
Jack  Harris  weds  his  second  wife  ; 
Hal  Baylis  drives  the  wafte  of  life  ; 

And  blithe  Carew — is  hung  ! 


OF  CLAPHAM  ACADEMY, 

Grave  Bovvers  teaches  ABC 
To  savages  at  Owhyee  : 

Poor  Chase  is  with  the  worms  !— 
All,  all  are  gone — the  olden  breed  ! — 
New  crops  of  mushroom  boys  succeed, 

"And  push  us  from  o\ix forms i" 

Lo  !  where  they  scramble  forth,  and  shout, 
And  leap,  and  skip,  and  mob  about, 

At  play  where  vje  have  play'd  ! 
Some  hop,  some  run  (some  fall),  some  iwino 
Their  crony  arms  ;  some  in  the  shine,— 

And  some  are  in  the  shade  ! 

Lo  !  there  what  mix'd  conditions  run  I 
The  orphan  lad  ;  the  widow's  son ; 

And  Fortune's  favour'd  care — 
The  wealthy- born,  for  whom  she  hath 
Mac-Adamised  the  future  path — 

The  Nabob's  pamper'd  heir  ! 

Some  brightly  starr'd — some  evil  bom,— 
For  honour  some,  and  some  for  scorn,— 

For  fair  or  foul  renown  ! 
Good,  bad,  indifferent — none  may  lack  ! 
Look,  here's  a  White,  and  there's  a  Black  I 

And  there's  a  Creole  brown  1 

Some  laugh  and  sing,  some  mope  and  weep^ 
And  wish  iheir  "  frugal  sires  would  keep 

Their  only  sons  at  home  ;  " — 
Some  tease  the  future  tense,  and  plan 
The  full-grown  doings  of  the  man, 

And  pant  for  years  to  come  ! — 

A  foolish  wish  !     There's  one  at  hoop; 
And  four  nx. Jives!  and  five  who  stoop 

The  marble  taw  to  speed  ! 
And  one  that  curvets  in  and  out, 
Reigning  his  fellow  Cob  about,— 

Would  I  were  in  his  steed! 


Yet  he  would  gladly  halt  and  drop 
That  boyish  harness  off,  to  swop 

With  this  world's  heavy  van 
To  toil,  to  tug.     O  little  fool ! 
While  thou  canst  be  a  horse  at  schoo^ 

To  wish  to  be  a  man  1 


ADDHESS  TO  MR  CROSS^ 

Perchance  thou  deem'st  it  were  a  thinf 
To  wear  a  crown, — to  be  a  king  ! 

And  sleep  on  regal  down  ! 
Alas!  thou  know'st  not  kingly  cares; 
Far  happier  is  thy  head  that  wears 

That  hat  without  a  crown  ! 

And  dost  thou  think  that  years  acquire 
New  added  joys  ?     Dost  think  thy  sire 

More  happy  than  his  son? 
That  manhood's  mirth  ? — Oh,  go  thy  ways 
To  Drury  Lane  when  plays. 

And  see  hovj  forced  o\xr  fun  ! 

Thy  taws  are  brave  ! — thy  tops  are  rare  I— 
Oitr  tops  are  spun  with  coils  of  care, 

Our  dumps  are  no  delight  ! — 
The  Elgin  marbles  are  but  tame, 
And  'tis  at  best  a  sorry  game 

To  fly  the  Muse's  kite  ! 

Our  hearts  are  dough,  our  heels  are  lead, 
Our  topmost  joys  fall  dull  and  dead, 

Like  balls  with  no  rebound  ! 
And  often  with  a  faded  eye 
We  look  behind,  and  send  a  sigh 

Towards  that  merry  ground  ! 

Then  be  contented.     Thou  hast  got 
The  most  of  heaven  in  thy  young  lot ; 

There's  sky-blue  in  thy  cup  ! 
Thou'lt  find  thy  Manhood  all  too  fast — 
Soon  come,  soon  gone  !  and  Age  at  last 

A  sorry  breaking- up  I 


ADDRESS  TO  MR  CROSS,  OF  EXETER  CHANGE^ 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF   THE   ELEPHANT.* 
*"Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more." — Giaour. 

Oh,  Mr  Cross  ! 
Permit  a  sorry  stranger  to  draw  near, 

And  shed  a  tear 
(I've  shed  my  shilling)  for  thy  recent  loss  1 

I've  been  a  visitor 
Of  old — a  sort  of  a  Buffon  inquisitor 

*New  Monthly  Magazine,  1826. 


OF  EXETER  CHANGE. 

Of  thy  menagerie,  and  knew  the  beast 

That  is  deceased  ! 
I  was  the  Damon  of  the  gentle  giant, 
And  oft  have  been, 
Like  Mr  Kean, 
Tenderly  fondled  by  his  trunk  compliant. 
Whenever  I  approach'd,  the  kindly  brute 
Flapp'd  his  prodigious  ears,  and  bent  his  knees- 
It  makes  me  freeze 
To  think  of  it !     No  chums  could  better  suit. 
Exchanging  grateful  looks  for  grateful  fruit,— 
For  so  our  former  dearness  was  begun. — 
I  bribed  him  with  an  apple,  and  beguiled 
The  beast  of  his  affection  like  a  child  ; 
And  well  he  loved  me  till  his  life  was  done 
(Except  when  he  was  wild). 
It  makes  me  blush  for  human  friends — but  none 
I  have  so  truly  kept  or  cheaply  won  1 


Here  is  his  pen  ! 

The  casket — but  the  jewel  is  away  1 

The  den  is  rifled  of  its  denizen, — 

Ah,  well-a-day ! 
This  fresh  free  air  breathes  nothing  of  his  grojsness, 
And  sets  me  sighing  even  for  its  closeness. 

This  light  one-storey, 
Where  like  a  cloud  I  used  to  feast  my  eyes  on 
The  grandeur  of  his  Titan-like  horizon. 
Tells  a  dark  tale  of  its  departed  glory  ; — 
The  very  beasts  lament  the  change  like  me. 

The  shaggy  Bison 
Leaneth  his  head  dejected  on  his  knee  ; 
The  Hyaena's  laugh  is  hushed  ;  the  Monkey's  pout  J 
The  Wild  Cat  frets  in  a  complaining  whine ; 
The  Panther  paces  restlessly  about, 

To  walk  her  sorrow  out ; 
The  Lions  in  a  deeper  bass  repine  ; 
The  Kangaroo  wnngs  its  sorry  short  forepaws ; 

Shrieks  come  from  the  Macaws  j 
The  old  bald  Vulture  shakes  his  naked  head, 

And  pineth  for  the  dead; 
The  Boa  writhes  into  a  double  knot ; 

The  Keeper  groans 

Whilst  sawing  bones, 
And  looks  askance  at  the  deserted  spot ; 
Brutal  and  rational  lament  his  loss, 
The  flower  of  thy  beastly  family  ! — 

Poor  Mrs  Cross 
Sheds  frequent  tears  into  her  daily  tea, 

And  weakens  her  Bohea  I 


ADDRESS  TO  MR  CROSS. 

Oh,  Mr  Cross,  how  little  it  gives  birth 

To  grief  when  human  greatness  goes  to  earth  ; 

How  few  lament  for  Czars  ! — 
But,  oh,  the  universal  heart  o'erflow'd 

At  his  "  high  mass," 

Lighted  by  gas, 
When,  like  Mark  Antony,  the  keeper  show'd 

The  Elephantine  scars  ! — 

Reporters'  eyes 

Were  of  an  egg-like  size  ; 
Men  that  had  never  wept  for  murder'd  Marrs  1 
Hard-hearted  editors,  with  iron  faces, 

Their  sluices  all  unclosed, — 

And  discomposed 
Compositors  went  fretting  to  their  cases  ! — 

That  grief  has  left  its  traces  ; 
The  poor  old  Beef-eater  has  gone  much  greyer 

With  sheer  regret ; 

And  the  Gazette 
Seems  the  least  trouble  of  the  beast's  Purveyor ! 


And  I  too  weep  !  a  dozen  of  great  men 
I  could  have  spared  without  a  single  tear  ; 

But  then 
They  are  renewable  from  year  to  year  ! 
Fresh  Gents  would  rise  though  Gentresign'd  the  pen  J 

I  should  not  wholly 

Despair  for  six  months  of  another  C , 

Nor,  though  F lay  on  his  small  bier, 

Be  melancholy. 
But  when  will  such  an  elephant  appear  ? 
Though  Penley  were  destroy'd  at  Drury  Lane^ 

His  like  might  come  again  ; 

Fate  might  supply 
A  second  Powell,  if  the  first  should  die  ; 
Another  Bennet,  if  the  sire  were  snatch'd  ; 

Barnes — might  be  match'd  ; 

And  Time  fill  up  the  gap 
Were  Parsloe  laid  upon  the  green  earth's  lap  ; 
Even  Claremont  might  be  equall'd, — I  could  hope 
(All  human  greatness  is,  alas,  so  puny  \) 
For  other  Egertons — another  Pope, 

But  not  another  Chuneel 


Well !  he  is  dead  ! 

And  there's  a  gap  in  Nature  of  eleven 

Feet  high  by  seven — 
Five  living  tons! — and  1  remain — nine  stone 

Of  skin  and  bone  ! 


ELEGY  ON  DAVID  LAING,  ESQ.  33 

It  is  enough  to  make  me  shake  my  head 

And  dream  of  the  grave's  brink — 

'Tis  worse  to  think 
How  like  the  Beast's  the  sorry  life  I've  led  I— 

A  sort  of  show 
Of  my  poor  pubHc  self  and  my  sagacity, 

To  profit  the  rapacity 
Of  certain  folks  in  Paternoster  Row, 
A  slavish  toil  to  win  an  upper  storey— 

And  a  hard  glory 
Of  wooden  beams  about  my  weary  brow  1 

Oh,  Mr  C.  ! 
If  ever  you  behold  me  twirl  my  pen 
To  earn  a  public  supper,  that  is,  eat 

In  the  bare  street, — 
Or  turn  about  their  literary  den — 

Shoot  me  I 


ELEGY  ON  DAVID  LAING,  ESQ.^ 

BLACKSMITH  AND  JOINER  (WITHOUT  LICENCE)  AT  GRETNA  GREEN 

Ah  me  !  what  causes  such  complaining  breath, 

Such  female  moans,  and  flooding  tears  to  flow  ? 
It  is  to  chide  with  stern,  remorseless  Death, 
For  laying  Laing  low  ! 
From  Prospect  House  there  comes  a  sound  of  woe — 
A  shrill  and  persevering  loud  lament, 
Echoed  by  Mrs  T.'s  Establishment 

"  For  Six  Young  Ladies, 
In  a  retired  and  healthy  part  of  Kent." 

All  weeping,  Mr  L gone  down  to  Hades ! 

Thoughtful  of  grates,  and  convents,  and  the  veil ! 
Surrey  takes  up  the  tale, 
And  all  the  nineteen  scholars  of  Miss  Jones, 
With  the  two  parlour-boarders  and  th'  apprentice- 
So  universal  this  mis-timed  event  is — 

Are  joining  sobs  and  groans  ! 
The  shock  confounds  all  hymeneal  planners, 

And  drives  the  sweetest  from  their  sweet  behaviours. 
The  girls  at  Manor  House  forget  their  manners, 

And  utter  sighs  like  paviours  ! 
Down — down  through  Devon  and  the  distant  shires 

Travels  the  news  of  Death's  remorseless  crime ; 
And  in  all  hearts,  at  once,  all  hope  expires 
Of  matches  against  tmie  ! 

•  Literary  Gazette,  August  4,  1827. 


14  ELEGY  ON  DAVID  LAING,   ESQ, 

Along  the  northern  route 
The  road  is  water'd  by  postilions'  eyes  ; 

The  topboot  paces  pensively  about, 
And  yellow  jackets  are  all  stain'd  with  sighat 
There  is  a  sound  of  grieving  at  the  Ship, 
And  sorry  hands  are  wringing  at  the  Bell, 

In  aid  of  David's  knell. 
The  postboy's  heart  is  cracking — not  his  whip-— 

To  gaze  upon  those  useless  empty  collars 
His  wayworn  horses  seem  so  glad  to  slip — 

And  think  upon  the  dollars 
That  used  to  urge  his  gallop — quicker  !  quicker  ! 

All  hope  is  fled, 

For  Laing  is  dead — 
Vicar  of  Wakefield — Edward  Gibbon's  vicar  1 

The  barristers  shed  tears 
Enough  to  feed  a  snipe  (snipes  live  on  suction), 

To  think  in  after  years 
No  suits  will  come  of  Gretna  Green  abduction. 

Nor  knaves  inveigle 
Young  heiresses  in  marriage  scrapes  or  legal ; 

The  dull  reporters 
Look  truly  sad  and  seriously  solemn 

To  lose  the  future  column 
On  Hymen-Smithy  and  its  fond  resorters  ! 

But  grave  Miss  Daulby  and  the  teaching  brood 
Rejoice  at  quenching  the  clandestine  flambeau — 

That  never  real  beau  of  flesh  and  blood 
Will  henceforth  lure  young  ladies  from  their  Chambaud. 

Sleep — David  Laing  ! — sleep 
In  peace,  though  angry  governesses  spurn  thee ! 
Over  thy  grave  a  thousand  maidens  weep, 

And  honest  postboys  mourn  thee  1 
Sleep,  David  ! — safely  and  serenely  sleep, 

Be-wept  of  many  a  learned  legal  eye  ! 
To  see  the  mould  above  thee  in  a  heap 

Drowns  many  a  lid  that  heretofore  was  dry  1* 
Especially  of  those  that,  plunging  deep 

In  love,  would  "  ride  and  tie  !  " 
Had  I  command,  thou  should'st  have  gone  thy  ways 
In  chaise  and  pair — and  lain  in  P^re- la- Chaise  1 


STANZAS  TO  TOM  WOODGATE.  8S 

STANZAS  TO  TOM  WOODGATE, 

OF  HASTINGS.* 

Tom  ; — are  you  still  within  this  land 
Of  livers — still  on  Hastings'  sand, 

Or  roaming  on  the  waves  ? 
Or  has  some  billow  o'er  you  roU'd, 
Jealous  that  earth  should  lap  so  bold 

A  seaman  in  her  graves  ? 

On  land  the  rushlight  lives  of  men 
Go  out  but  slowly  ;  nine  in  ten, 

By  tedious  long  decline — 
Not  so  the  jolly  sailor  sinks, 
Who  founders  in  the  wave,  and  drinks 

The  apoplectic  brine  ! 

Ay,  while  I  write,  mayhap  your  head 
Is  sleeping  on  an  oyster-bed — 

I  hope  'tis  far  from  truth  ! — 
"With  periwinkle  eyes  ; — your  bone 
Beset  with  mussels,  not  your  own. 

And  corals  at  your  tooth ! 

Still  does  the  *  Chance '  pursue  the  chanOB 
The  main  affords — the  '  Aidant '  dance 

In  safety  on  the  tide  ? 
Still  flies  that  sign  of  my  good-will — 
A  little  bimting  thing — but  still 

To  thee  a  flag  of  pride  ? 

Does  that  hard,  honest  hand  now  clasp 
The  tiller  in  its  careful  grasp — 

With  every  summer  breeze 
When  ladies  sail,  in  lady-fear— 
Or  tug  the  oar,  a  gondolier 

On  smooth  Macadam  seas  ? 

Or  are  you  where  the  flounders  keep. 
Some  dozen  briny  fathoms  deep, 

Where  sand  and  shells  abound — 
With  some  old  Triton  on  your  chest, 
And  twelve  grave  mermen  for  a  'quest, 

To  find  that  you  are — drown'd  ? 

•  Literary  Souvenir,  1828. 


STANZAS  TO  TOM  WOODGATM, 

Swift  is  the  wave,  and  apt  to  bring: 
A  sudden  doom  :  perchance  I  sing 

A  mere  funereal  strain  ; 
You  have  endured  the  utter  strife — 
And  are — the  same  m  death  or  life— 

A  good  man  in  the  main  1 

Oh,  no  ! — I  hope  the  old  brown  eye 
Still  watches  ebb  and  flood  and  sky ; 

That  still  the  brown  old  shoes 
Are  sucking  brine  up — pumps  indeed  !— 
Your  tooth  still  full  of  ocean  Weed, 

Or  Indian — which  you  choose. 

I  like  )  ou,  Tom  !  and  in  these  lays 
Give  honest  worth  its  honest  praise. 

No  puff  at  honour's  cost; 
For  though  you  met  these  words  of  mine^ 
All  letter-learning  was  a  line 

You,  somehow,  never  cross'd  I 

Mayhap  we  ne'er  shall  meet  again, 
Except  on  that  Pacific  main 

Beyond  this  planet's  brink  ; 
Yet,  as  we  erst  have  braved  the  weather 
Still  may  we  float  awhile  together, 

As  comrades  on  this  ink  1 

Many  a  scudding  gale  we've  had 
Together,  and,  my  gallant  lad. 

Some  perils  we  have  pass'd  ; 
When  huge  and  black  the  wave  career'd^ 
And  oft  the  giant  surge  appear'd 

The  master  of  our  mast : — 

Twas  thy  example  taught  me  how 
To  climb  the  billow's  hoary  brow, 

Or  cleave  the  raging  heap — 
To  bound  along  the  ocean  wild. 
With  danger — only  as  a  child 

The  waters  rock'd  to  sleep. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  that  brave  deligh^ 
To  see  the  hissing  wave  in  might 

Come  rampant  like  a  snake  ! 
To  leap  his  horrid  crest,  and  feast 
One's  eyes  upon  the  briny  beast. 

Left  couchant  in  the  wake  ! 


STANZAS  TO  TOM  WOODGATE. 

The  simple  shepherd's  love  is  still 
To  bask  upon  a  sunny  hill, 

The  herdsman  roams  the  vale— 
With  both  their  fancies  I  agree  ; 
Be  mine  the  swelling,  scooping  sea. 

That  is  both  hill  and  dale  ! 


I  yearn  for  that  brisk  spray — I  yearn 
To  feel  the  wave  from  stem  to  stern 

Uplift  the  plunging  keel  ; 
That  merry  step  we  used  to  dance 
On  board  the  '  Aidant '  or  the  '  Chance^* 

The  ocean  "  toe  and  heel." 


I  long  to  feel  the  steady  gale 

That  fills  the  broad  distended  sail — 

The  seas  on  either  hand ! 
My  thought,  like  any  hollow  shell, 
Keeps  mockmg  at  my  ear  the  swell 

Of  waves  against  the  land. 

It  is  no  fable — that  old  strain 
Of  sirens  ! — so  the  witching  main 

Is  singing — and  I  sigh  ! 
My  heart  is  all  at  once  inclined 
To  seaward — and  I  seem  to  find 

The  waters  in  my  eye  ! 

Methinks  I  see  the  shining  beach  ; 
The  merry  waves,  each  after  each, 

Rebounding  o'er  the  flints  ; 
I  spy  the  grim  preventive  spy  ! 
The  jolly  bnatmen  standing  nigh! 
The  maids  in  morning  chintz  1 

And  there  they  float — the  sailing  craft! 
The  sail  is  up — the  wind  abaft — 

The  ballast  trim  ,.nd  neat. 
Alas  !  'tis  all  a  dream — a  lie  ! 
A  printer's  imp  is  standing  by, 

To  haul  my  mizen  sheet ! 

My  tiller  dwindles  to  a  pen — 
My  craft  is  that  of  bookish  men— 

My  sale — let  Longman  tell! 
Adieu,  the  wave,  the  wind,  the  spray! 
Men — maidens — chintzes — fade  away  J 

Tom  Woodgate,  fare  thee  well ! 


I?  A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  FROSt 

A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY 

FROM    ISLINGTON   TO    WATERLOO    BRIDGE,    IN    MARCH     [82 1.* 

"The  son  of  Cornelius  shall  make  his  own  legs  his  compasses  with  those 
he  shall  measure  continents,  islands,  capes,  bays,  straits,  and  isthmuses." — 
Memoirs  0/  Alartinus  Scriblerus. 

«  T  SHOULD  very  much  like  to  travel,"  said  a  young  cockney,  with 

X  his  feet  on  the  fender.  "  London  is  a  vast  place  ;  but  the  world 
is  ten  times  bigger,  and  no  doubt  a  many  strange  things  are  to  be  seen 
in  it." 

"And  pray,  young  man,"  said  an  old  gentleman,  whom  he  called  the 
philosopher,  "pray,  are  you  so  fimiliar  with  the  features  of  your  own 
country  ;  are  you  so  well  acquainted  with  its  men  and  manners,  that 
you  must  go  out  of  it  for  matter  of  investigation  and  speculation  ?" 

"  As  for  men,"  replied  the  cockney,  •'  we  may  see  them  anywhere. 
I've  seen  Crib  and  Suring,  and  the  best  good  ones  that  ever  peel'd  ; 
and  as  for  manners,  I  learned  them  at  the  dancing-school.  I  have  not 
been  all  over  England,  to  be  sure,  like  my  father's  riders  ;  but  I've 
been  to  Margate,  Brighton,  and  Moulsey  Hurst  ;  so  tnat  what  I  have 
not  seen  by  sack  I  have  seen  by  sample.  Besides,  London  is  the  very 
focus  of  England  ;  and  sure  I  am  that  I  know  it  from  Wapping  to 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  have  seen  all  that  is  instructive  in  it.  I've 
been  up  the  Monument,  and  down  St  Paul's,  over  the  Bridges,  and 
under  the  Tunnel.  I've  seen  the  King  and  Court,  Mrs  Salmon's  royal 
waxwork  too,  and  the  wild  beasts  at  Exeter  'Change  ; — I've  seen  Drury 
Lane  and  Covent  Garden  playhouses,  besides  the  Houses  of  Lords  and 
CoiTimons — the  Soho  Bazaar,  and  both  Barck-my  Fair  and  the  Brighton 
Pavilion.  I  never  missed  a  Lord  Major's  show,  nor  anything  that  is 
worth  seeing  ;  and  I  know  by  sight  Lord  Castlerea-h,  Jack  Ketch,  Sir 
William  Curtis,  Billy  Waters,  and  many  other  public  and  distinguished 
characters.' 

"If  you  have  seen  no  more  than  you  say,"  said  the  philosopher, 
"you  have  seen  a  great  deal  more  than  is  English  ;  and  if  you  only 
wish  to  study  mankind,  it  is  at  least  a  reason  against  your  le  iving  the 
country.  England  has,  to  be  sure,  its  national  character  ;  but  it  gives 
birth  to  many  mongrel-,  who  belong  rather  to  the  Spanish,  Dutch,  or 
otner  breeds  :  there  are  foreigners  born  here,  as  well  as  others  who 
visit  us  ;  and  why  should  we  go  abroad  to  study  them,  when  we  have 
them  all  in  epitt)me  at  home.?  DitTerent  nations,  like  different  men, 
are  only  compounds  of  the  same  ingredients,  but  in  varied  propor- 
tions. We  shall  find  knaves  and  honest  men  in  every  state,  and  a 
large  proportion  of  fools  and  dunces  in  them  all.  We  shall  find  every- 
%vhere  the  same  passions,  the  same  virtues  and  vices,  but  altered  in 
their  proportions  by  the  influences  of  education,  laws,  and  religion  ; 
which  in  some  parts  tend  to  improve,  and,  in  others,  to  pervert  tha 
common  nature  of  mankind. 

*  London  Magazine,  November  182 1. 


ISLINGTON  TO  WATERLOO  BRIDGE.  39 

*It  is  in  their  civil  and  religious  institutions  that  we  are  to  look  for 

the  grand  causes  effecting  those  distinctions  which  constitute  national 
character  ;  but  before  we  go  to  investigate  them,  we  should  at  least 
understand  a  little  of  our  own." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  the  cockney,  who  began  to  grow  tired  of  this  har- 
angue ;  "  there  are  sights  to  be  seen  abroad  which  can't  be  brought 
over  here,  and  as  for  men  being  the  same  all  the  world  over,  it's  all 
my  eye  ; — a'n't  there  the  Hotti  ntots  thnt  have  noses  like  your  pug's,  and 
heads  as  black  and  woolly  as  my  poodle's?  A'n't  the  Frenchmen  all 
skinny,  and  haven't  the  Spaniards  larue  whiskers  ?  There  are  the 
Patagonians,  too,  that  are  as  big  as  the  Irish  giant,  and  Laplanders  no 
bigger  than  Miss  What's-her-name,  the  dwarf  !" 

"  Pshaw!"  said  the  philosopher  in  his  turn  ;  "  all  these  are  minor  dis- 
tinctions, and  shrink,  as  it  were,  to  nothing  when  compared  with  the 
immeasurable  distances  between  the  minds  of  men  :  whether  I  be 
Englishman  or  Hottentot,  a  Laplander  or  a  Patagonian, — 

*If  I  could  stretch  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  grasp  the  ocean  in  a  span, 
I  must  be  measured  by  my  soul  : 

The  mind's  the  standard  of  the  man.' 

There  is,  no  doubt,  a  considerable  difference  between  a  Hottentot's 
nose  and  my  own,  which,  as  you  observe,  is  a  fine  Roman  one.  and 
very  like  Caesar's  ;  but  there  is,  I  flatter  myself,  a  much  greater  differ- 
ence between  our  understandings.  The  first  is  only  a  difference  in  the 
conformation  of  matter,  but  the  last  is  a  gradation  in  mind,  which,  to 
speak  in  common  language,  is  the  most  material  matter  of  the  two." 

Here  the  Cockney  was  quite  out  of  patience.  "  He  did  not  care,"  he 
said,  "about  mind  and  matter;  and  as  to  the  difference  of  men's 
minds,  why  men  would  differ,  but  he  meant  to  be  of  his  own  mind, 
and  the  philosopher  mi;4ht  be  of  his  ;"  and  so  they  parted. 

As  I  was  present  at  this  conversation,  it  occurred  to  m-e  that  if  men 
were  so  much  alike  everywhere,  or  rather,  if  every  soil  produced  the 
same  varieties,  I  could  see  as  much  of  them  in  a  walk  through  the 
populous  streets  of  London  as  in  a  hasty  journey  all  over  the  Conti- 
nent. Oh  !  I  will  not  travel,  said  I,  for,  in  the  first  place,  it's  unneces- 
sary ;  and  secondly,  I  do  not  feel  equal  to  its  fatigues  and  dani;ers  ; 
and  lastly,  said  I  (for  we  always  get  to  the  true  reason  at  last),  I  can't 
afford  it.  Besides,  I  had  not  seen  Waterloo  Bridge  ;  and  we  ought  to 
see  our  own  bridges  before  we  go  to  see  the  bridges  of  others.  A 
traveller,  said  I,  should  have  all  his  wits  about  him,  and  so  will  I.  He 
should  let  nothing  escape  him,  no  more  will  L  He  should  extract  re- 
flections out  of  a  cabbage  stump,  like  sunbeams  squeezed  out  of 
cucumbers  ;  so  will  I,  if  I  can  ;  and  he  should  converse  with  every 
and  any  one,  even  a  frshwoman.  Perhaps  I  will,  and  perhaps  I  will 
not,  said  I.  Who  knows  but  I  may  make  a  sentimental  journey,  as 
good  as  Sterne's  ;  but  at  any  rate  I  can  write  it,  and  send  it  to  the 
London  Magazine. 

I  had  hardly  left  the  threshold  of  my  door,  ere  I  met,  as  I  thought, 
with  an  adventure.  I  had  just  reached  that  ancient  and  grotesque 
house  which  is  said  to  have  been  a  summer  seat  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 


40  A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  FROM 

though  now  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  or  rather  town  of  Islington, 
when  I  observed  that  the  steps  which  led  down  to  the  door  had  becomtj 
the  seat,  or  rather  the  couch,  of  an  unfortunate  female.  She  had,  like 
Sterne's  Maria,  her  dog  and  her  pipe,  and  like  her,  too,  she  was  evi- 
dently beside  herself.  "  Poor  unfortunate  and  interesting  Maria,"  said 
I,  as  she  came  into  my  mind,  exactly  as  Sterne  had  drawn  her.  I  had 
touched  a  string — at  the  name  of  Maria,  the  female  for  the  first  time 
raised  her  head,  and  I  caught  a  glance  at  her  uncommon  countenance. 
The  rose  had  not  fled  from  it,  nor  the  bloom,  for  this  was  damson, 
and  that  was  damask ;  there  was  a  fixedness  in  her  gaze,  and  although 
she  quickly  turned  her  head  away,  she  could  not  hide  from  me  that 
she  had  a  drop  in  her  eye.  "  It  won't  do,"  said  I,  shaking  my  head. 
**  Maria  found  Sterne's  handkerchief,  and  washed  it  with  tears,  and 
dried  it  in  her  bosom  ;  but  if  I  lose  mine  here,  it's  ten  to  one  if  I  see 
it  again  ;  and  if  this  Maria  should  wet  it  with  her  eyes,  methinks  it 
would  dry  best  again  at  her  nose.  There  is  nothing  to  sympathise  with 
in  her  bewilderment — she's  rather  bewitched  than  bewitching — she's 
a  dry  subject ;"  and  so  I  left  her.  My  eyes,  however,  were  full  charged 
with  the  tears,  and  my  bosom  with  the  sighs,  which  I  had  expected  to 
mingle  with  those  of  the  supposed  unfortunate.  Some  sentimentalists 
would  have  vented  them  upon  the  first  dead  dog  or  lame  chicken  they 
might  meet  with,  but  I  held  them  too  valuable  to  be  wasted  upon 
such  objects.  I  hate  the  weeping-willow  set,  who  will  cry  over  their 
pug-dogs  and  canaries,  till  they  have  no  tears  to  spare  for  the  real 
children  of  misfortune  and  misery  ;  but  sensibility  is  too  scarce,  and 
too  valuable,  not  to  be  often  imitated ;  and  these,  therefore,  are  the 
ways  in  which  they  advertise  their  counterfeit  drops.  They  should  be 
punished  like  any  other  impostors,  and  they  might  be  made  of  some 
use  to  society  at  the  same  time ;  for  as  other  convicts  are  set  to  beat 
hemp,  and  pick  oakum,  so  I  would  set  these  to  perform  funerals,  and 
to  chop  onions.  These  reflections,  and  the  incidents  which  gave  rise 
to  them,  I  resolved  to  treasure  up,  for  they  would  perhaps  have  their 
use  in  some  part  of  my  journey. 

They  will  warn  me  against  being  too  sentimental,  said  I.  In  the 
first  place,  it's  ridiculous  ;  secondly,  it's  useless  ;  and  lastly,  it's  incon- 
venient ;  for  I  just  recollect  tliat  there's  a  very  large  hole  in  my  pocket- 
handkerchief.  These  reflections  brought  me  into  Colebrook  Row,  or 
rather  into  a  heap  of  mud  that  stood  at  the  end  of  it,  for  street  reveries 
are  very  subject  to  such  sudden  terminations.  They  say  that  English- 
men have  a  rusticity  about  them  that  only  rubs  off  by  a  little  travel ; 
but  that  must  certainly  be  erroneous,  for  I  had  hardly  gone  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  ere  I  lost,  in  the  mudding  of  my  boots,  the  little  all  of 
polish  that  I  wore  about  me.  Barring  the  first  agony  of  mortification, 
I  bore  it,  however,  with  uncommon  fortitude,  for  I  knew  that  travellers 
must  expect  to  meet,  as  I  did,  with  sad  and  serious  accidents.  There 
passed,  however,  a  young  gentleman  in  very  tight  trotter-cases,  but 
whilst  his  feet  gave  evident  signs  of  suffering,  I  observed  that  his 
countenance  was  calm,  vacant,  and  stoical.  Pshaw,  said  I,  if  he  can 
bear  his  pinches  so  well,  I  may  surely  put  up  with  my  splashes ;  this 
pain  of  mine  exists  only  in  imagination,  whereas  his  poor  feet,  like 
Shakespeare's  stricken  deer,  "  distend  their  leathern  coats  almost  to 


ISLINGTON  TO  WA  TERLOO  BRIDGE.  4I 

bursting.**  What  a  felicity  there  is  in  a  happy  application  of  words! 
I  was  so  pleased  with  the  resemblance  which  I  discovered  between 
the  foot  of  a  dandy  and  a  stricken  deer,  that  I  quite  for;j;Qt  my  vexa- 
tion and  its  cause.  I  found,  as  I  thought,  that  1  had  a  genius  for  apt 
quotations,  and  resolved  not  to  be  sparing  of  them ;  they  would  give 
to  my  travels  an  air  of  great  learning;  and  if  learning  be  better  than 
riches,  there  would  be  no  more  harm  in  showing  it  thus  than  in  pulling 
ou*^  a  large  purse,  as  some  do,  to  give  a  poor  beggar  a  halfpenny. 

"  Give  a  poor  beggar  a  halfpenny,"  said  a  man,  as  if  he  had  heard 
and  echoed  the  last  part  of  my  thought. 

The  City  Road  was  excessively  dirty,  but  he  had  swept  a  cleaner 
passage  over  it,  and  as  I  trod  across  his  little  track  of  Terra  Firma,  I 
dropped  the  merited  coin  into  his  hat,  for  I  saw  he  had  only  half-a- 
crown  in  it.  "Thank  your  honour,"  said  he,  looking  full  in  my  face, 
and  then  looking  down  upon  my  boots,  he  thanked  me  a.L;ain,  and  still 
more  emphatically,  "  It  is  very  true,"  said  I,  entering  into  his  feeling — 
"  it's  very  true — and  if  I  too  had  looked  upon  my  boots,  you  probably 
had  not  had  it." 

He  thought,  no  doubt,  with  certain  philosophers,  that  man's  main- 
spring is  selfishness,  and  perhaps  he  was  not  quite  wrong  ;  but  at  all 
events  to  decide  it,  I  re-^olved  to  watch  his  customers  and  analyse  his 
profits.  "A  plague  take  the  fellow!  "  said  an  old  j^entleman,  whom  he 
had  hunted  fifty  paces  for  a  halfpenny,  "  you  ought  to  be  reported  to 
the  Mendicity  Society."  He  gave  it  to  him,  to  get  rid  of  his  importunity, 
thought  I.  He  would  have  kept  his  halfpenny  by  walking  a  little 
faster,  but  he  walks  very  lame,  poor  old  gentleman,  and  that  perhaps 
makes  him  pettish.  The  next  halfpenny  he  got  from  a  lady,  who  had 
walked  a  lon^:  way  down  the  road  to  avail  herself  of  his  labour.  It 
was  rather  for  her  upper  leather's  than  her  soul's  sake,  said  I ;  and 
as  for  that  old  lady  that  followed  her,  I  can  read  in  his  face  that  she 
has  given  him  a  pocket-piece  ;  but  they  all  go  in  charity,  as  it  is  called  ; 
and  1  have  le.irned,  by  the  by,  what  to  du  with  a  lorged  or  flash  note. 
As  nobody  else  seemed  inclined  to  give  him  anything,  I  summed  up 
my  calculations:  one-third  had  given  from  inconvenience,  and  one- 
third  for  convenience,  and  the  rest,  or  the  pocket-piece,  was  the  gift  of 
pure  charity.  We  may  say  of  charity,  as  "  Hamlet  Travestied  "  does  of 
death — that  it's  truly  a  fine  thing  to  talk  of.  We  all  preach  it — we  all 
praise  and  admire,  but  when  we  come  to  the  practice  of  it,  we  "  leave 
that  to  men  of  more  learning;"  and  are  as  careful  of  our  pence  as  of 
our  lives,  when  we  find  they've  no  chance  of  returning.  I  had  hardly 
ended  these  uncharitable  reflections,  when  I  was  obliged  to  retract 
and  repent  them.  I  had  begun  to  read  a  very  conspicuous  hand-bill 
which  was  posted  on  some  palings  near  Sadler's  Wells,  and  invited  the 
admirers  of  fisticuffs  to  a  grand  s(<arring  benefit  at  the  Fives  Court. 
But  I  had  hardly  ;-;ot  farther  than  the  noble  science  of  self-defence,  when 
it  was  for  the  most  part  eclipsed  by  a  new  hand-bill,  fresh  from  the  pole 
of  the  bill-sticker  ;  and  altogether,  they  then  appeared  as  follows : — 
To  the  Fancy — on  such  a  day — a  Sermon  will  be  preached  by  such  a 
Bishop  at  such  a  church,  for  the  benefit  of  such  a  charity — and  as  a 
Uttle  piece  of  the  other  bill  expressed  at  the  bottom  that  real  good  onei 
were  expected,  I  applied  it  of  course  to  the  exclusion  of  pocket-pieces. 


4a  A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  FROM 

I  had  a  fresh  subject  besides  in  this  piece  of  wajjgery  of  the  bill 
sticker's,  which  had  afforded  me  no  little  entertainment.  Shakespeare 
was  right,  and  so  was  the  philosopher,  in  my  estimation ;  for  I  saw 
that  what  they  had  represented  was  correct,  that  certain  characters 
are  confined  to  no  class,  condition,  nor  country.  We  may  meet  with 
dull  pedagogues  and  authors,  and  with  sensible  clowns  and  witty 
bill-stickers  ;  and  I  doubt  not  that  we  shall  as  readily  meet  with 
blunt  Frenchmen,  with  shuffling  En.,dishmen,  and  honest  and  brave 
Italians.  I  met  with  no  other  incident  worth  relating  or  reflecting 
upon,  till  I  came  to  a  public-house  near  Lady  Huntingdon's  Chapel, 
and  there  I  met  with  matter  of  interest  and  amusement,  inasmuch  as 
it  involved  a  question  upon  national  and  domestic  government. 

It  was  no  less  than  a  quarrel  between  a  man  and  his  wife,  who  had 
just  ejected  him  from  his  seat  in  the  parlour ;  and  the  argument  was,  not 
whether  he  should  go  there  at  all,  but  whether  he  should  go  there  with- 
out her  permission  tirst  sought  and  obtained.  There  were  not  wanting 
auxiliaries  and  allies  upon  each  side,  and  tliere  were  as  many  advocates 
for  the  rights  of  woman  as  there  were  supporters  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
free-will  of  man.  There  was,  besides,  a  third  party,  composed  chiefly 
of  young  persons,  perhaps  spinsters  and  bachelors,  who,  by  siding 
sometimes  with  one  and  sometimes  the  other,  seemed  inclined  to 
provoke  the  opposing  parties  to  a  general  combat.  It  was  evident 
from  the  clamour  of  the  females,  and  from  the  swearing  of  the  men, 
that  the  argument,  if  such  it  might  be  called,  would  never  arrive  at 
any  legitimate  conclusion  ;  and  taking  advantage  therefore  of  a 
general  pause,  the  effect  of  exhausted  rage,  I  was  induced  to  offer 
my  aid  as  a  mediator  between  the  two  sexes.  Now,  it  so  happens, 
that  when  persons  are  angry  or  ridiculous,  they  like  to  make  parties 
of  all  the  spectators  ;  and  as  I  had  taken  no  part  in  the  fray,  but  had 
been  strictly  neutral,  the  proposal  vras  generally  agreed  to ;  especially 
as  I  had  the  appearance  of  one  of  the  meek  among  men.  Getting 
therefore  upon  one  of  the  benches,  I  stretched  forth  my  hand,  and 
proceeded  as  follows  : — 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  question  which  you  have  referred  to 
me  is  of  the  greatest  importance,  not  only  to  me,  but  to  you, — not 
only  to  you,  but  to  all  the  world. 

"  It  requires  to  know  which  of  the  sexes  was  born  for  dominion — 
whether  woman  should  rule  ('or  man  should  be  ruled,'  said  an  Irish- 
man). It  not  only  questions  whether  wife  should  rule  husband,  or 
husband  rule  wife — but  also  if  Queens  should  ascend  the  throne,  or 
if  Kings  should  sit  upon  it  ;  for  whichever  may  be  unfit  to  command 
a  family  must  be  equally  unqualified  to  govern  a  nation."  The  con- 
clusion of  this  sentence  was  followed  by  shouts  of  applause  from  both 
patties,  each  applying  to  the  other  the  unfitness  to  which  I  alluded. 
"  If,"  said  I,  "we  may  judge  from  a  law  which  exists  and  has  existed, 
I  should  say  that  the  softer  sex  are  unqualified  for  the  thrones,  from 
which  by  that  very  law  they  stand  excluded."  Here  I  was  obliged  to 
bow  to  the  applause  of  my  male  hearers,  and  also  to  the  ladies,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  force  of  a  flying  patten. 

"But  there  is  one  circumstance,"  I  continued,  "and  it  certainly 
goes   strongly   against    such   a   conclusion  ; — I    mean    that   in   that 


ISLINGTON  TO  WA  TERLOO  BRIDGE.  43 

Instance  the  men  were  the  law-makers."  Here  again  I  hnd  to  bow 
to  the  ladies,  and  duck  to  the  gentlemen.  "  I  will  say,  moreover,  that 
if  we  refer  to  the  history  of  a  n.ition  where  that  law  was  unknown,  we 
shall  find  that  the  reiL;ns  of  two  thirds  of  her  Queens  have  been  happy 
or  glorious.     (Loud  applause  from  the  females.) 

"  This  fact,  however,  goes  no  farther  in  support  of  this  side  of  the 
question  than  the  Salic  law  on  the  other  ;  for  allowing  that  the  sway 
of  those  Queens  was  so  sweet  and  splendid,  yet  we  must  remember, 
that  they  governed  by  their  ministers,  and  conquered  by  their  generals 
and  admirals.  (Cheers  from  the  men.)  If  we  trace  still  farther  back  in 
history,  even  unto  the  days  of  Saul  and  David,  and  if  \v  e  iind  a  frequent 
mention  of  Kings,  and  of  their  being  anointed,  what  then  shall  we  say 
0}  this  question,  if  we  find  in  the  whole  course  of  that  history,  no  in- 
stance of  an  anointed  Queen?  (Hisses  and  groans  from  the  ladies.) 
If  such  be  the  fact,  what  shall  we  infer  from  it,  but  that  there  were 
no  priestesses.''  (Shouts  and  laughter  from  the  ladies.)  But  why  had 
they  no  priestesses  ?  I  must  confess  that  I  am  unable  to  answer. 
(Cheers  from  the  males)  I  will  now  con-ider  the  other  branch  of  the 
subject  ;  for  although  it  is  evident  thr.t  those  who  are  unfit  to  rule 
families  must  be  unqualified  to  govern  kingdoms,  yet  it  does  not  follow, 
therefore,  that  those  who  are  unable  to  govern  kingdoms  are  unequal 
to  the  lighter  task  of  governing  a  family.  There  are  many  very 
worthy  women  whom  I  should  be  loth  to  trust  with  a  sceptre,  but 
they  sway  the  domestic  rod  with  vigour  and  success — (hear  !  from  the 
men)  ; — and  there  are  also  many  men  of  a  different  stamp,  of  indolent 
or  profligate  characters,  whose  affairs  thrive  best,  or  would  thrive 
better,  under  the  guidance  of  their  wives.  (Hear  !  from  the  women.) 
We  know,  too,  that  there  are  others  who  have  willingly  resigned  to 
their  wives  the  control  of  their  purse,  and  the  direction  of  their  affairs  ; 
convinced,  by  experience,  that  they  were  the  best  merchants,  the  best 
accountants,  and  the  best  orators.  (Hear,  hear  !  from  the  ladies.) 
Upon  these  grounds  we  may  assign  the  right  of  dominion  to  the 
female  sex — (screams  of  applause  from  the  women,  and  groans  from 
the  men); — I  say,  upon  these  grounds  we  may  assign  the  right  of 
dominion  to  the  female  se.\  (the  same  tumult  repeated).  I  say  (said 
I,  raising  my  voice),  I  say  that  upon  these  grounds  we  may  assign  the 
right  of  dominion  to  the  female  sex,  provided  that  the  whole,  or  the 
greater  portion  of  men,  may  be  supposed  idle,  profligate,  or  the  most 
ignorant.  But  I  must  confess,  and  I  do  it  with  all  sincerity,  that  this 
would  appear  to  me  to  be  a  most  unhandsome,  most  uncharit,  ble, 
and  unjust  estimate.     (Shouts  from  the  men,  and  hisses  from  the  ladies.) 

"  How,  then,  shall  we  decide  this  great  question,  seeing  that  the 
trial  by  battle  is  by  Parliament  abolished  ?  It  may  be  ruled  from 
precedent,  or  rather  the  want  of  it,  that  the  female  sex  be  excluded 
from  the  sovereignty  and  the  priesthood,  but  their  claims  to  domestic 
dominion  are  as  yet  uncontroverted  —  (cheers  from  the  ladies)  ;— 
and  as  yet  unestablished.  (Cheers  from  the  gentlemen.)  There  only 
remains,  in  my  opinion,  a  middle  course  to  pursue  : 

*  Let  all  agree, — let  none  engross  the  sway, 
But  each  command  by  turns,  and  each  obey.' 


14  A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  FROM 

Let  the  lady  be  paramount  in  the  kitchen  and  the  nursery,  and  abso- 
lute in  the  garrets.  Let  the  gentleman  be  king  in  his  parlour,  and 
emperor  in  his  study  ;  and  as  for  the  drawin.^-room  and  the  garden,  let 
their  sway  there  be  divided.  Let  her  be  a  judge  in  fashions,  in  novels, 
and  in  all  fancy  articles  ;  and  let  him  decide  on  politics,  on  liquors, 
and  on  horse-flesh.  As  for  all  other  matters  of  argument,  let  them  be 
considered  as  drawn  battles  at  draughts  ;  and  finally,  let  each  sex  con- 
sider itself  as  bound  to  the  other  by  an  alliance  offensive  and  defen- 
sive." The  conclusion  of  this  my  oration  was  followed  by  very  general 
cries  of  applause,  which  were  the  more  gratifying,  when  i  considered 
the  difficulty  of  pleasing  all  parties  in  a  concern  of  so  much  interest  to 
each.  Nor  was  that  my  only  reward,  for  I  received  I  know  not  how 
many  invitations  to  partake  of  porter,  gin,  and  punch,  all  of  which  I 
declined,  alleging  that  I  wished  to  go  straightway  to  Waterloo  Bridge 
—at  least,  as  much  as  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  by  Gray's  Inn  Lane, 
Chancery  Lane,  and  the  Strand.  I  had  just  reached  the  middle  of 
Elm  Street,  when  I  was  alarmed  by  loud  and  piercing  screams,  and  as 
a  carriage  had  rapidly  turned  the  corner,  I  feared  that  some  unfortu- 
nate human  being  had  been  run  over.  There  is  something  in  the 
shrill  cry  of  a  female  in  distress  that  irresistibly  impels  and  wings 
one  to  her  succour.  I  flew  up  the  hill — turned  the  corner,  and  beheld 
at  my  feet  a  poor  swine,  which  was  screaming  under  the  repeated 
lashes  of  a  ruffian  drover.  She  had  sunk  down,  apparently  from  ex- 
haustion, in  the  middle  of  the  kennel,  and  as  she  started  and  kicked 
under  the  bloodthirsty  thong,  her  struggles  and  splashings  were  truly 
shocking.  Aged — and  a  female — exposed  to  insult,  cruelty,  and  indig- 
nity— her  grunts  so  like  groans,  and  her  squeaks  so  like  screams — 
it  was  impossible  for  humanity  to  look  on  and  be  passive.  I  straddled 
over  the  unfortunate  sow,  and  interposed  my  body  betwixt  her  and  her 
tormentor  ;  and  had  it  been  at  the  risk  of  immolation,  my  feelings 
could  not  have  allowed  me  to  shrink  from  it.  I  should  have  died  a 
glorious  martyr  to  humanity  !  I  protected  the  innocent,  and  I  did 
more,  for  I  threatened  to  chastise  her  oppressor  ;  and  I  should  certainly 
have  done  so  with  his  own  whip,  if  I  could  only  have  wrested  it  from 
him.  However,  I  accepted  the  brute's  challenge  to  fight ;  and  here  I 
must  say,  that  upon  any  other  occasion,  I  should  have  deemed  it  dis- 
graceful and  ungentlemanly  ;  but  in  such  a  cause,  as  the  champion  of 
humanity,  the  guardian  of  the  brute  creation,  I  thought  it  not  only 
gentlemanly,  but  angelic  ;  and  1  felt  that  I  was  quite  in  my  duty  when 
I  folded  up  my  new  "coat  and  confided  it  to  the  care  of  a  decent  shop- 
keeper. We  exchanged  only  a  few  blows,  and  if  I  did  not  thrash  him 
heartily,  he  owed  it  to  my  humanity  ;  for  it  was  merely  from  a  reluct- 
ance to  end  in  blood  what  I  had  begun  in  tears,  that  I  so  speedily  de- 
clined the  combat.  The  spectators  indeed  did  not  seem  to  enter  into 
my  feeling  ;  but  whip  me  the  man  who  would  not  prefer  the  praise  of 
mercy  to  the  meed  of  victory  !  Besides,  I  considered  it  a  sin,  a  kind 
of  profanation,  to  mar  and  disfigure  "  the  human  face  divine,"  and  one 
of  us,  at  least,  was  handsome. 

I  did  not,  however,  resign  the  cause  or  interests  of  the  poor  sow, 
but  slipping  a  crown  into  the  hand  of  the  drover,  I  recommended  hef 
to  his  mercy  as  a  man  and  a  Christian.    "  Coax  her,"  said  I ;  '*  call  herj 


ISLINGTON  TO  WATERLOO  BRIDGE.  4$ 

sr  run  before  her,  and  entice  her  with  a  cabbage-leaf — do  anything 
but  whip  her  so  cruelly.  And  now,"  I  continued,  addressing  myself 
to  the  bystanders,  amongst  whom  were  some  very  well-dressed  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  "  now  let  me  impress  upon  your  memories  one  very 
great  error  as  regards  pig-driving.  A  pig  will  run  this  way  and  thnt, 
and  any  way,  perhaps,  but  the  right  one  ;  but  it  is  uncharitable  and 
cruel  to  attribute  to  obstinacy  what  may  only  originate  in  an  ovgr-- 
anxiety  to  please.  I  have  seen  a  pig  run  backward,  and  forward, 
and  sideways,  and  if  it  had  been  possible  to  run  a  dozen  ways  at 
once,  I  verily  believe  it  would  have  done  it." 

The  sow  got  up,  the  crowd  dispersed,  and  I  pursued  my  journey.  It 
afterwards  struck  me  that  I  heard  at  a  distance  the  same  shrill, 
humanlike,  and  persevering  screams  ;  but  it  might  be  fancy,  for  I  be- 
lieve they  will  ring  in  my  ears  as  often  as  I  pass  the  corner  of  Elm 
Street,  Gray's  Inn  Lane.  Gray's  Inn  Lane,  by  the  by,  is  not,  as  I 
conjecture,  the  true  name  of  it ;  the  ancient  appellation  must  have 
been  anything  but  what  it  now  bears— perhaps  Grazing  Lane,  because, 
ere  it  was  built  upon,  the  cattle  used  to  graze  in  it. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  there  is  nothing  farther  to  remark  of  Gray's  Inn 
Lane,  but  that  it  brings  one  into  Holborn. 

Hence,  and  through  Chancery  Lane,  I  amused  myself  by  speculat- 
ing on  the  faces  of  the  passengers.  It's  a  study  I'm  very  fond  of,  and 
if  I  am  in  anything  superstitious,  it  is  in  the  signs  and  forebodings  of 
the  countenance.  Who  cannot  trace  in  the  face  of  a  dandy  the  circu- 
lation of  his  two  ideas, — his  opinion  of  himself  and  others  ;  and  who 
is  there  that  mistakes  the  keen  eye  of  a  genius  ? 

But  it  is  Temper  that  writes  the  most  legible  hand  in  the  counte- 
nance ;  and  it  is  easy  therefore  to  distinguish,  amongst  a  crowd,  the 
pet  lamb  of  his  mother,  the  tyrant  of  his  family,  and  the  humble  ser- 
vant of  his  wife.  "  There's  that  man,"  said  I,  looking  at  a  gentleman 
who  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement: — "  his  curled  lip  indi- 
cates his  pride  ;  but  I  know  by  the  very  restlessness  of  his  eye  that 
he's  afraid  of  bailiffs.  As  for  that  man  who  has  just  passed,  I  would 
not  live  with  such  a  temper  for  my  board  and  lodging.  That  lady's 
mask  is  handsome ;  but  I  must  say  with  the  fox,  '  Cerebrum  non 
habet ; '  and  her  little  girl'sdoll  has  more  wit  in  her  one  eye  than  shehas 
in  two."  My  judgments,  however,  were  not  always  fortunate  ;  the  man 
with  restless  eyes  was  only  looking  for  his  poodle  dog  ;  and  as  the 
cross-looking  man  went  soon  afterwards  into  a  cook-shop,  I  supposed 
that  he  had  been  rather  hungered  than  ill-natured.  As  for  the  lady 
and  the  child,  I  don't  know  whether  I  set  them  down  rightly  or  not, 
but  in  the  meantime  I  will  suppose  so,  and  cling  to  my  study.  I  was 
now  in  the  Strand,  close  to  Temple  Bar ;  and  from  hence  to  Waterloo 
Bridge,  I  calculated  would  be  the  journey  of  an  hour.  Who  is  there 
that  can  walk  along  this,  or  any  of  the  principal  City  streets,  without 
admiring  the  number  of  elegant  shops,  and  the  still  more  elegant  and 
wonderful  productions  which  they  contain  .?  they  are  to  me  the  sources 
of  the  greatest  pleasure  ;  and  when  time  will  permit  me  to  do  so,  I  in- 
spect them  from  the  goldsmith's  and  jeweller's,  down  to  the  humbler 
repositories  of  the  tinman  and  brazier.  Nay,  I  have  been  caught,  and 
rallied  bv  mv  acquaintance  for  looking  in  lovingly  at  the  haberdasher's 
and  milliner's. 


«6  A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY  FROM 

It  is  not  that  I  am  merely  smitten  with  the  beauty  of  their  articleg 
that  I  look  into  them  with  such  admiration  and  (ielight,  but  it  is 
because  I  can  there  trace  an  evident  and  progressive  improvement  in 
the  arts  and  manufactures  of  my  country.  This  affords  me  a  dehght 
in  which  all  ought  to  sympathise,  and  tJiat  calls  forth  an  admiration  in 
which  all  must  participate.  Whether  we  examine  those  paintings  and 
prints,  which  are  more  strictly  termed  works  of  art  ;  whether  we  examine 
those  fabrics  which  have  been  produced  by  the  most  complicated 
machinery,  or  those  minor  articles  which  are  the  work  of  the  handi- 
craftsman, we  shall  find  that  there  prevails  in  all  a  degree  of  taste  which 
can  only  be  the  result  of  a  general  cultivation  of  mind.  It  is  this  that 
has  led  to  so  many  ingenious  inventions,  and  has  tended  above  all  to 
promote  the  general  alliance  between  elegance  and  utility  ;  and  when 
we  contemplate  the  mighty  effects  of  its  progress  hitherto,  who  can 
calculate  its  future  attainments .-'  Long  may  it  continue  its  mighty 
march,  to  the  honour  and  happiness  of  my  countrymen  ;  and  may  they, 
in  better  days,  obtain  for  their  industry  and  ingenuity  those  rewards 
which  hitherto  have  not  kept  pace  with  their  merits.  May  they  still 
travel  onwards  in  the  path  of  improvement,  and  surmounting  all 
obstacles  which  a  meaner  ambition  would  plant  in  their  way,  reach 
that  point  of  excellence  and  perfection  to  which  man  in  this  world  may 
be  destined  to  attain  !  Here  a  bookseller's  shop  gave  a  new  turn  to  my 
speculations.  We  are  certainly  a  reading  people,  I  thought,  as  I  looked 
in  at  the  window  ;  but  I  would  fain  know  if  this  cultivation  of  the  mind 
conduces  to  happiness.  I  was  inclined  to  decide  in  the  affirmative  ; 
for  the  collection  before  me  suggested  the  names  of  Shakespeare, 
Addison,  Milton,  and  a  host  of  other  authors,  linked  with  a  thousand 
delightful  reminiscences.  Much  must  depend  upon  one's  course  of 
reading,  said  I,  still  running  over  the  titles  : — A  Sermon  to  Sinne — ■ 
The  Poole's  Jest  Book — Dialogues  of  the  Dead — Life  in  London — To}n- 
lin^s  Sea  Worthies — The  Newgate  Calendar  —  Cato's  Letter  to  the 
Country — The  King's  Reply  to  his  People — Wordes  to  the  Wyse— 
IVitte's  Cronykill — A  New  Spelling  Book.  But  what  have  we  here  ? 
It  happened  very  strangely,  I  might  almost  say  miraculously,  that  I 
read  a  solution  of  my  speculation  in  a  book  before  me.  It  was  called 
77ie  Prayse  of  Ignorance ;  and  in  the  two  grave-looking  brown-com- 
plexioned  pages  that  lay  open,  I  read  as  follows  : — 

"  Hee  was  made  to  bee  happye  but  not  learned  :  for  eating  of  the 
Tree  of  Knowledge  hee  was  caste  out  of  Paradyse.  Hys  was  the  Blisse 
of  Ignorance  ;  but  We  being  born  to  bee  learned,  and  unhappye  withall, 
have  noght  but  the  Ignorance  of  Blisse.  Soe  we  aske  not  which  bee 
the  most  happye  ;  but  which  bee  the  leeste  unhappye  :  and  trulye  hee 
hath  leeste  Paines  that  hath  not  most  Bokes.  Hee  is  your  Berkshire 
or  Hampshire  manne  with  a  harde  Head  and  a  long  Stomack — which 
is  a  Hogge  amongst  Wittes,  but  a  Witte  amongst  Hogges;  and  when 
hee  sleepes  you  wot  not  which  can  grunte  loudeste.  For  why  ?  Hee 
beares  no  care  on  hys  Head  ;  excepte  hys  Hatte,  and  that  hee  hath 
not  much  care  withal  except  a-Sundayes.  One  maye  rede  in  hys 
Vysage  that  he  wots  not  to  write :  but  he  maketh  hys  Marke  and  soe 
hath  one  to  ten  chances  against  the  Gallowes.  Hys  Haire  is  un- 
kempte ;  and  soe  is  hys  Ir«tellecte ;   but  betwixt  both  hee  saveth  a 


ISLINGTON  TO  WA  TERLOO  BRIDGE.  49 

World  of  Trouble.     Hys  Head  itches  :  it  doth  not  ake.      It  is  as 

emptye  as  a  drye  Bowie;  but  hys  Belly  is  crammede  to  the  fulle — for 
hee  is  no  author. 

"  You  maye  write  him  downe  a  Manne  with  nn  Idea  :  but  hee  is  more 
blessede  than  anye  with  two ;  for  hee  hath  nonne  of  their  fevcnshe 
Deliriums.     How  can  hys  Minde  wander? 

"  Now  look  you  to  your  Schollar,  He  cryes  in  hys  verye  Birthe,  for 
hee  is  stryped  into  hys  ABC;  most  of  hys  Wordes  doe  end  in  O,  and 
hys  Whyppinges  have  many  Syllables.  Hee  hateth  his  Boke  fulle 
sore  :  and  noe  Marvel  !  For  hee  wotteth  to  the  Sorrowe  of  hys  Bottom, 
that  Learning  is  at  the  Bottom  of  hys  Sorrowe.  There  is  a  natural! 
Hyphen  betwixt  them.  A  connexion  of  Minde  and  Matter.  One 
Cometh  not  without  the  other,  and  hee  curseth  them  both  in  hys  Waye. 
Hys  Grammar  bringes  him  ficshe  annoye  :  for  hee  onlye  weepeth  in 
another  Tense.  But  hee  gets  the  Interjections  by  Harte.  Figures  are 
a  great  Greefe  unto  him  ;  and  unlye  multiplie  hys  Paines.  The  dead 
Tongues  doe  bringe  him  a  lively  sorrowe  ;  hee  L;ets  them  at  hys  Fingers 
endes.  And  soe  hee  waxeth  in  Growth  ;  into  a  Quarto  or  Folio,  as 
maye  bee  ;  a  greater  Bulke  of  Learning  and  Heavinesse  ;  Jjnd  belike 
hee  goeth  madde  with  Study  overmuch.  Alsoe  hee  betaketh  him  to 
write  ;  and  letts  hys  Braines  be  suckede  forihe  through  a  Quill.  If  hee 
seeke  to  get  Monneye  hys  Boke  is  unsolde  ;  and  if  hee  wolde  have  of 
the  Worlde's  Fame  hee  is  praysde  of  those  that  studye  not  hys  Rime's: 
or  is  scornde  and  mockede  of  those  that  will  not  understande  hys  Con- 
ceites,  which  is  a  greate  Sorrowe  ;  <or  Poesie  hath  made  hys  Harte 
tender,  and  a  little  Worde  is  a  greate  Paine.  Soe  he  i^etts  no  Sub- 
stance, but  looses  Fleshe.  Lastlye  hee  dyeth  a  pitifuU  Death  ;  the 
kindly  Crcditour  of  an  unkindlye  Worlde  ;  and  tiien  hee  is  weepede 
for ;  and  it  is  askde,  '  Why  will  hee  not  write  again  ?' 

"  And  the  Parishe  Clarke  hys  witte  sufficeth  to  hys  Epitaph,  which 
runnes : — 

*  Alake  !  alake  !  that  Studye  colde  not  save 
Soe  great  a  Witte  out  of  so  small  a  grave. 
But  Learning  must  decaye,  and  Letters  both, 
And  Studye  too.     Death  is  a  dreadfull  Goth, 
Which  spareth  nonne.'  " 

Unfortunately,  I  could  neither  read  further,  nor  turn  over  the  leaf 
through  the  glass  ;  and  still  more  unfortunately,  I  did  not  go  in  and 
purchase  the  book.  However,  I  had  read  enough  to  lead  me  to  a 
decision,  that  the  ignorant  are  the  most  happy  ;  and  as  I  walked  away 
from  the  window  \  repeated  the  lines  : — 

"  No  more  ;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise." 

As  this  was  the  second  great  question  that  I  had  decided,  I  walked 
onward  to  Waterloo  Bridge,  without  any  doubt  of  being  able  to  deter- 
mine the  third,  viz.,  as  to  the  merits  and  dements  of  the  bridge  and 
its  architect.  But  here  an  unioreseen  difficulty  presented  itself;  for 
owing  to  the  lateness  of  my  arrival,  and  the  sudden  fall  of  a  very 


4;»  A  SENTIMENTAL  JOURNEY,  ETC. 

dense  fog,  I  was  unable  to  do  anything  more  than  determine  to  come 
again. 

I  accordingly  walked  back  into  the  Strand,  and  finding:  a  stage  at 
Somerset  House,  I  took  my  seat  in  it,  and  turned  towards  home.  I 
had  three  travelling  companions,  two  males  and  one  female  ;  and  after 
we  had  discussed  the  usual  topics,  and  paid  the  usual  compliments, 
the  conversation  dwindled  away  into  a  profound  sileuce ;  I  therefore 
employed  myself  in  the  arrani^ement  of  my  travels,  and  in  recollecting 
the  various  incidents  and  reflections  to  which  they  had  given  rise. 

I  must  request,  Mr  Editor,  your  utmost  indulgence  towards  one  so 
inexperienced  as  a  traveller,  and  if  you  should  find  that  the  style  of 
my  narration  is  rugged  and  uneven,  and  that  the  incidents  and  reflec- 
tions are  abrupt  and  unconnected,  I  beg  that  you  will  attribute  it  to 
the  unpleasant  jolting  of  the  stage,  and  the  frequent  interruptions  and 
Stoppages  that  it  met  with.  Incog 


ODES  AND   ADDRESSES 

TO 

GREAT     PEOPLE. 

*CMdl!og  an  the  oddities,  the  whimsies,  the  absurdities,  and  the  littlenesses  of  ConsdoM 
greatness  by  the  way." — Citizen  of  the  World, 

[First  published  1825.] 

ODE  TO  MR  GRAHAM,  THE  AERONAUT. 

•  Up  with  me  I— up  with  me  into  the  sky ! " 

—Wordsworth  :  On  a  Latrhl 

I. 

Dear  Graham,  whilst  the  busy  crowd, 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud. 

Their  meaner  fli-hts  pursue, 
Let  us  cast  off  the  foolish  ties 
That  bind  us  to  the  earth,  and  ris9 

And  take  a  bird's-eye  view  l'^ 

n. 

A  few  more  whiffs  of  my  cigar. 
And  then,  in  Fancy's  airy  car, 

Have  with  thee  for  the  skies  : — 
How  oft  this  fragrant  smoke  upcurl'd 
Hath  borne  me  from  this  little  worldf 

And  all  that  in  it  lies  1 — 

III. 

Away  ! — away  ! — the  bubble  fills- 
Farewell  to  earth  and  all  its  hills  !— 

We  seem  to  cut  the  wind  ! — 
So  high  we  mount,  so  swift  we  go, 
The  chimney-tops  are  far  below, 

The  Eagle's  left  behind  !— 


TO  MR  GRAHAM. 


IV. 


All  me  !  my  brain  begins  to  s%yim  ^— 
The  world  is  growing  rather  dim ; 

The  steeples  and  the  trees — 
My  wife  is  getting  very  small ! 
I  cannot  see  my  babe  at  all ! — 

The  DoUond,  if  you  please  !— > 


Do,  Graham,  let  me  have  a  quiz. 
Lord  !  what  a  Lilliput  it  is, 

That  little  world  of  Mogg's  !— 
Are  those  the  London  Docks?— that  channeB 
The  mighty  Thames  ?— a  proper  kennel 

For  that  small  Isle  of  Dogs  !— 

VI. 

What  is  that  seeming  tea-urn  there  ? 
That  fairy  dome,  St  Paul's  !— 1  swear, 

Wren  must  have  been  a  Wren  ! — 
And  that  small  stripe  ?— it  cannot  be 
The  City  Road  !— Good  lack !  to  see 

The  little  ways  of  men  ! 

VII. 

Little,  indeed  ! — my  eyeballs  ache 
To  find  a  turnpike. — I  must  take 

Their  tolls  upon  my  trust  1 — 
And  where  is  mortal  labour  gone  ? 
Look,  Graham,  for  a  little  stone 

MacAdamized  to  dust ! 

VIII. 

Look  at  the  horses  !— less  than  flies  I— » 
Oh,  what  a  waste  it  was  of  sighs 

To  wish  to  be  a  Mayor  ! 
What  is  the  honour  ? — none  at  all ; 
One's  honour  must  be  very  small 

For  such  a  civic  chair ! — 

IX- 

And  there's  Guildhall !— 'tis  far  aloof— 
Methinks  I  fancy,  thro'  the  roof, 

Its  little  guardian  Gogs, 
Like  penny  dolls— a  tiny  show ! — 
Well,— I  must  say  they're  ruled  below 

By  very  little  logs  ! — 


TO  MR  GRAHAM. 


O  Graham  !  how  the  upper  air 
Alters  the  standards  of  compare ; 

One  of  our  silken  flags 
Would  cover  London  all  about. 
Nay  then — let's  even  empty  out 

Another  brace  of  bags  1 

XI. 

Now  for  a  glass  of  bright  champagne 
Above  the  clouds  ! — Come,  let  us  drain 

A  bumper  as  we  go  ! — 
But  hold  I  for  God's  sake  do  not  cant 
The  cork  away — unless  you  want 

To  brain  your  friends  below, 

xir. 

Think  !  what  a  mob  of  little  men 
Are  crawling  just  within  our  ken, 

Like  mites  upon  a  cheese  ! — 
Pshaw  !  how  the  foolish  sight  rebukes 
Ambitious  thoughts  ! — can  there  be  DukeS 

Of  Gloster  such  as  these  ? 

XIII. 

Oh  !  what  is  glory? — what  is  fame? 
Hark  to  the  little  mob's  acclaim — 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  hum  ! — 
A  few  near  gnats  would  trump  as  Iou4 
As  all  the  shouting  of  a  crowd 

That  has  so  far  to  come  I — 

XIV. 

Well — they  are  wise  that  choose  the  near, 
A  few  small  buzzards  in  the  ear, 

To  organs  ages  hence  ! — 
Ah  me  !  how  distance  touches  all ; 
It  makes  the  true  look  rather  small, 

But  murders  poor  pretence. 

XV. 

•The  world  recedes  ! — it  disnppears  ! 
Heav'n  opens  on  my  eyes — my  ears 

With  buzzing  noises  ring  !" — 
A  fig  for  Southey's  Laureate  lore  ! — 
What's  Rogers  here  ? — Who  cares  for  Moore, 

That  hears  the  An^rels  sing  ? — 


TO  MR  GRAHAM. 


XVI. 


A  fig  for  earth,  and  all  its  minions  f— ■ 
"We  are  above  the  world's  opinions, 

Graham  !  we'll  have  our  own  ! — • 
Look  what  a  vantage  height  we've  got  !— 
J^ow do  you  think  Sir  Walter  Scott 

Is  such  a  Great  Unknown  ? 

XVII. 

Speak  up, — or  hath  he  hid  his  name 
To  crawl  thro'  "  subways  "  unto  fame, 

Like  Williams  of  Cornhill  ? — 
Speak  up,  my  lad  ! — when  men  run  smatt 
We'll  show  what's  little  in  them  all, 

Receive  it  how  they  will ! — 

XVIII. 

Think  now  of  Trving  !— shall  he  preach 
The  princes  down  ? — shall  he  impeacli 

The  potent  and  the  rich, 
Merely  on  ethic  stilts, — and  I 
Not  moralise  at  two  miles  high, 

The  true  didactic  pitch  ? 

XIX. 

Come,— what  d'ye  think  of  Jeffrey,  sir? 
Is  Gifford  such  a  Gulliver 

In  Lilliput's  Review, 
That  like  Colossus  he  should  stride 
Certain  small  brazen  inches  wide 

For  poets  to  pass  through  ? 

XX. 

Look  down  !  the  world  is  but  a  spot. 
Now  say — Is  Blackwood's  low  or  not, 

For  all  the  Scottish  tone  ? 
It  shall  not  weigh  us  here — not  where 
The  sandy  burden's  lost  in  air — 

Our  lading— where  is't  flown  ? 

XXI. 

Now, — ^like  you  Croly's  verse  indeed— 
In  heaven — where  one  cannot  read 

The  "  Warren"  on  a  wall  ? 
What  think  you  here  of  th.it  man's  fame? 
Tho'  Jerdan  magnified  his  name, 

To  me  'tis  very  small ! 


TO  MR  GRAHAM.  53 


XXII. 

And,  truly,  is  there  such  a  spell 
In  those  three  letters,  L.  E.  L., 

To  witch  a  world  with  song  ? 
On  clouds  the  Byron  did  not  sit, 
Yet  dared  on  Shakespeare's  head  to  spit, 

And  say  the  world  was  wrong  ! 

XXIII. 

And  shall  not  we  ?    Let's  think  aloud  1 
Thus  being  couch'd  upon  a  cloud, 

Graham,  we'll  have  our  eyes  ! 
We  felt  the  great  when  we  were  Ies% 
But  we'll  retort  on  littleness 

Now  we  are  in  the  skies. 

XXIV. 

0  Graham,  Graham  !  how  I  blame 
The  bastard  blush,  the  petty  shame, 

That  used  to  fret  me  quite, — 
The  little  sores  I  cover'd  then  ! — 
No  sores  on  earth,  nor  sorrows  when 

The  world  is  out  of  sight  I 

XXV. 

My  name  is  Tims. — I  am  the  man 
That  North's  unseen  diminish'd  claa 
So  scurvily  abused  ! 

1  am  the  very  P.  A.  Z. 

The  London's  Lion's  small  pin's  head 
So  often  hath  refused  1 

XXVI. 

Campbell — (you  cannot  see  him  here)— 
Hath  scorn'd  my  lays : — do  his  appear 

Such  great  e^^gs  from  the  sky  ? 
And  Longman,  and  his  lengthy  Co.-^ 
Long,  only,  in  a  little  Row, — 

Have  thrust  my  poems  by ! 

XXVII. 

What  else  ? — I'm  poor,  and  much  beset 
With  damn'd  small  duns — that  is,  in  debt 

Some  grains  of  golden  dust ! 
But  only  worth  above  is  worth. — 
What's  all  the  credit  of  the  earth  ?— 

An  inch  of  cloth  on  trust ! 


TO  MR  GRAHAM. 


XXVIII. 


What's  Rothschild  here,  that  wealthy  man  I 
Nay,  worlds  of  wealth  ? — Oh,  if  you  can, 

Spy  out, — the  Golden  Ball  I 
Sure,  as  we  rose  all  money  sank  : 
What's  gold  or  silver  now  ? — the  Uank 

Is  gone — the  'Change  and  all  1 

XXIX. 

What's  all  the  ground-rent  of  the  globe?— 

0  Graham  !  it  would  worry  Job 
To  hear  its  landlords  prate  ! 

But  after  this  survey,  I  tliink 
I'll  ne'er  be  bullied  more,  nor  shrink 
From  men  of  large  estate  1 

XXX. 

And  less,  still  less,  will  I  submit 
To  poor  mean  acres'  worth  of  wit— 
I  that  have  heaven's  span — 

1  that  like  Shakespeare's  self  may  dream 
Beyond  the  very  clouds,  and  seem 

An  Universal  Man  ! 

XXXI. 

O  Graham !  mark  those  gorgeous  crowds  1 
Like  Birds  of  Paradise  the  clouds 

Are  winging  on  the  wind  ! 
But  what  is  grander  than  their  range. 
More  lovely  than  their  sunset  change  ?— 

The  free  creative  mind  ! 

XXXII. 

Well !  the  Adult's  School's  in  the  air  I 
The  greatest  men  are  lesson'd  there 

As  well  as  the  Lessee  ! 
Oh,  could  earth's  Ellistons,  thus  small. 
Behold  the  greatest  stage  of  all, 

How  humbled  they  would  be  I 

XXXIII. 

•  Oh,  would  some  god  the  giftie  gie  'em, 
To  see  themselves  as  others  see  'em," 

'Tvvould  much  abate  their  fuss  ! 
if  they  could  think  that  from  the  skies 
They  are  as  little  in  our  eyes 

As  they  can  think  of  us  I 


TO  MRS  FRY.  |5 


XXXIV. 

Of  us  !  are  ive  gone  out  of  sight  ? 
Lessen'd  !  diminish'd  !  vanish'd  quite  ! 

Lost  to  the  tiny  town  ! 
Beyond  the  Eagle's  ken — the  grope 
Of  DoUond's  longest  telescope  ! 

Graham !  we're  going  down  1 

XXXV. 

Ah  me  !  I've  touch'd  a  string  that  opes 
The  airy  valve  ! — the  gas  elopes — 

Down  goes  our  bright  balloon  ! — 
Farewell  the  skies  !  the  clouds  ! — I  smell 
The  lower  world  !     Graham,  farewell, 

Man  of  the  silken  moon  i 

XXXVI. 

The  earth  is  close !  the  City  nears— 
Like  a  burnt  paper  it  appears, 

Studded  with  tiny  sparks  ! 
Methinks  I  hear  the  distant  rout 
Of  coaches  rumbling  all  about— 

We're  close  above  the  Parks  I 

XXXVII. 

I  hear  the  watchmen  on  their  beats. 
Hawking  the  hour  about  the  streets. 

Lord  !  what  a  cruel  jar 
It  is  upon  the  earth  to  light  I 
Well — there's  the  finish  of  our  flight  I 

I've  smoked  my  last  cigar  1 


A  FRIENDLY  EPISTLE  TO  MES  FEY,  IN 
NEWGATE. 

"  Sennons  in  stones." — As  You  Like  It, 
•"Out  1  out  I  damned  spot  1 " — Macbeth, 

I. 

I  LIKE  you,  Mrs  Fry  !  I  like  your  name  ! 

It  speaks  the  very  warmth  you  feel  in  pressing 

In  da'iy  act  round  Charity's  great  flame — 

1  likt  the  crisp  Browne  way  you  have  of  dressing, 


|6  TO  MRS  FRY, 

Good  Mrs  Fry  !     I  like  the  placid  claim 

You  make  to  Christianity, — professing 

Love,  and  good  works — of  course  you  buy  of  Barton, 

Beside  the  young/ry'j  bookseller,  Friend  Darton  1 


II. 

I  like,  good  Mrs  Fry,  your  brethren  mute^ 
Those  serious,  solemn  gentlemen  that  sport— 
I  should  have  said,  that  wear,  the  sober  suit 
Shaped  like  a  court  dress^but  for  heaven's  court. 
I  like  your  sisters  too, — sweet  Rachel's  fruit — 
Protestant  nuns  !     I  like  their  stiff  support 
Of  virtue — and  I  like  to  see  them  clad 
With  such  a  difference — just  like  good  from  bad  f 


IIL 

•I  like  the  sober  colours — not  the  wet ; 
Those  gaudy  manufactures  of  the  rainbow- 
Green,  orange,  crimson,  purple,  violet — 
In  which  the  fair,  the  flirting,  and  the  vain  go— 
The  others  are  a  chaste,  severer  set. 
In  which  the  good,  the  pious,  and  the  plain  go  : 
They're  moral  standards,  to  know  Christians  by- 
In  short,  they  are  your  colours^  Mrs  Fry  1 


IV. 

As  for  the  naughty  tinges  of  the  prism- 
Crimson's  the  cruel  uniform  of  war — 
Blue — hue  of  brimstone  !  minds  no  catechism  J 
And  green  is  young  and  gay — not  noted  for 
Goodness,  or  gravity,  or  quietism. 
Till  it  is  sadden'd  down  to  tea-green,  or 
Olive — and  purple's  given  to  wine,  I  guess  ; 
And  yellow  is  a  convict  by  its  dress  1 


V. 

They're  all  the  devil's  liveries,  that  men 

And  women  wear  in  servitude  to  sin — 

But  how  will  they  come  off,  poor  motleys,  whea 

Sin's  wages  are  paid  down,  and  they  stand  ia 

The  Evil  presence  ?     You  and  I  know  then 

How  all  the  party  colours  will  begin 

To  part — the  /'//tite  hues  will  sadden  there, 

Whereas  the  Foxite  shades  will  all  show  fair! 


TO  MRS  FRY.  S7 


VI. 


Witness  their  goodly  labours  one  by  one  ! 
Russet  makes  garments  for  the  needy  poor — 
Dove-colour  preaches  love  to  all — and  dun 
Calls  every  day  at  Charity's  street-door — 
Brown  studies  Scripture,  and  bids  woman  shutt 
All  gaudy  furnishing — olive  doth  pour 
Oil  into  wounds  :  and  drab  and  slate  supply 
Scholar  and  book  in  Newgate,  Mrs  Fry  I 

VII. 

Well !  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  discommend 
The  gratis,  charitable,  jail-endeavour  ! 
When  all  persuasions  in  your  praises  blend — 
The  Methodists'  creed  and  cry  are,  Fry  for  ever  I 
No — I  will  be  your  friend — and,  like  a  friend, 
Point  out  your  very  worst  defect — Nay,  never 
Start  at  that  word  ! — But  1  must  ask  you  why 
You  keep  your  school  in  Newgate,  Mrs  Fry? 

VIII. 

Too  well  I  know  the  price  our  mother  Eve 

Paid  for  her  schooling  :  but  must  all  her  daughters 

Commit  a  petty  larceny,  and  thieve^ 

Pay  down  a  crime  for  "  eiitrance"  to  your  "  quartersi* 

Your  classes  may  increase,  but  I  must  grieve 

Over  your  pupils  at  their  bread  and  waters  ! 

Oh,  tho'  it  cost  you  rent — (and  rooms  run  high)  I 

Keep  your  school  out  of  Newgate,  Mrs  Fry  I 

I3C 

Oh,  save  the  vulgar  soul  before  it's  spoil'd  ! 
Set  up  your  mounted  sign  without  the  gate— 
And  there  inform  the  mind  before  'tis  soil'd  1 
*Tis  sorry  writing  on  a  greasy  slate  ! 
Nay,  if  you  would  not  have  your  labours  foil'd, 
Take  it  inclinitig  towards  a  virtuous  state. 
Not  prostrate  and  laid  flat — else,  woman  meek  I 
The  upright  pencil  will  but  hop  and  shriek  1 

X. 

Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  drain 
The  evil  spirit  from  the  heart  it  preys  in,— 
To  bring  sobriety  to  life  again. 
Choked  with  the  vile  Anacreontic  raisin,— 


58  TO  MRS  FRY. 

To  wash  Black  Betty  when  her  black's  ingrain,— 
To  stick  a  moral  lacquer  on  Moll  Brazen, 
Of  Suky  Tawdry's  habits  to  deprive  her  ; 
To  tame  the  wildfowl-ways  of  Jenny  Diver  1 


XI. 

Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  teach 
Miss  Nancy  Dawson  on  her  bed  of  straw — 
To  make  Long  Sal  sew  up  the  endless  breach 
She  made  in  manners — to  write  Heaven's  own  law 
On  hearts  of  granite. — Nay,  how  hard  to  preach 
In  cells,  that  are  not  memory's — to  draw 
The  moral  thread,  through  the  immoral  eye 
Of  blunt  Whitechapel  natures,  Mrs  Fry  I 


XII. 

In  vain  you  teach  them  baby-work  within  : 
'Tis  but  a  clumsy  botchery  of  crime  ; 
*Tis  but  a  tedious  darning  of  old  sin — 
Come  out  yourself,  and  stitch  up  souls  in  time- 
It  is  too  late  for  scouring  to  begin 
When  virtue's  ravell'd  out,  when  all  the  prime 
Is  worn  away,  and  nothing  sound  remains  ; 
You'll  fret  the  fabric  out  before  the  stains  1 


XIII. 

I  like  your  chocolate,  go6d  Mistress  Fry  ! 

I  like  your  cookery  in  every  way ; 

I  like  your  Shrove-tide  service  and  supply; 

I  like  to  hear  your  sweet  Pa>idt:a?is  play  ; 

I  like  the  pity  in  your  full-brimm'd  eye  ; 

I  like  your  carriage,  and  your  silken  grey, 

Your  dove-like  habits,  and  your  silent  preachingf 

But  I  don't  like  your  Newgatory  teachmg. 


XIV. 

Come  out  of  Newgate,  Mrs  Fry  !     Repair 
Abroad,  and  find  your  pupils  in  the  streets. 
Oh,  come  abroad  into  the  wholesome  air. 
And  take  your  moral  place,  before  Sin  seats 
Her  wicked  self  in  the  Professor's  chair. 
Suppose  some  morals  raw  !  the  true  receipt's 
To  dress  them  in  the  pan,  but  do  not  try 
To  cook  them  in  the  tire,  good  Mrs  Fry  I 


TO  MA'S  FRY.  19 


XV. 

put  on  your  decent  bonnet,  and  come  out . 

Good  lack  !  the  ancients  did  not  set  up  schools 

In  jail — but  at  the  Porch!  hinting,  no  doubt, 

That  Vice  should  have  a  lesson  in  the  rules 

Before  'twas  whipt  by  law. — Oh,  come  about, 

Good  Mrs  Fry !  and  set  up  forms  and  stools 

All  down  the  Old  Bailey,  and  through  Newgate  Street, 

But  not  in  Mr  Wontner's  proper  seat ! 

XVI. 

Teach  Lady  Barrymore,  if,  teaching,  you 
That  peerless  Peeress  can  absolve  from  dolour 
Teach  her  it  is  not  virtue  to  pursue 
Ruin  of  blue,  or  any  other  colour  ; 
Teach  her  it  is  not  Virtue's  crown  to  rue, 
Month  after  month,  the  unpaid  drunken  dollar; 
Teach  her  that  "  flooring  Charleys  "  is  a  game 
Unworthy  one  that  bears  a  Christian  name. 

xvir. 

Oh,  come  and  teach  our  children — that  aren't  ours— 
That  Heaven's  straight  pathway  is  a  narrow  way, 
Not  Broad  St  Giles's,  where  fierce  Sin  devours 
Children,  like  Time — or  rather  they  both  prey 
On  youth  together — meanwhile  Newgate  lowers 
Even  like  a  black  cloud  at  the  close  of  day, 
To  shut  them  out  from  any  more  blue  sky  : 
Think  of  these  hopeless  wretches,  Mrs  Fry  I 

XVIII. 

You  are  not  nice — go  into  their  retreats, 
And  make  them  Quakers,  if  you  will, — 'Twere  best 
They  wore  straight  collars,  and  their  shirts  saxYS  pleats  f 
That  they,  had  hats  with  brims, — that  they  were  drest 
In  garbs  without  Lippels — than  shame  the  streets 
With  so  much  raggedness. — You  may  invest 
Much  cash  this  way — but  it  will  cost  its  price, 
To  give  a  good,  round,  real  cheque  to  Vice  1 

XIX. 

In  brief, — Oh,  teach  the  child  its  moral  rote. 
Not  in  the  way  from  which  it  won't  depart,— 
But  oiit~ovX — out  !     Oh,  bid  it  walk  remote  t 
And  if  the  skies  are  closed  against  the  smart, 


TO  RICHARD  MARTIN,  ESQ.,  M.P, 

Even  let  him  wear  the  single-breasted  coa^ 
For  that  ensureth  singleness  of  heart. — 
Do  what  you  will,  his  every  want  SJipply, 
Keep  him— but  otU  of  Newgate,  Mrs  Fry  I 


ODE  TO  RICHARD  MARTIN,  ESQUIRE^ 
M.P.  FOR  GAL  WAY, 


How  many  sing  of  wars, 

Of  Greek  and  Trojan  jars— 

The  butcheries  of  men  ! 
The  Muse  hath  a  "  Perpetual  Ruby  Pen  !  " 
Dabbhng  with  heroes  and  the  blood  they  spill; 

But  no  one  sings  the  man 

That,  like  a  pelican. 
Nourishes  Pity  with  his  tender  BilU 

IL 

Thou  Wilberforce  of  hacks  I 

Of  whites  as  well  as  blacks, 

Piebald  and  dapple  gray, 
Chestnut  and  bay — 
No  poet's  eulogy  thy  name  adorns  I 

But  oxen,  from  the  fens, 

Sheep — in  their  pens, 
Praise  thee,  and  red  cows  with  their  winding  horns  f 
Thou  art  sung  on  brutal  pipes  ! 

Drovers  may  curse  thee. 

Knackers  asperse  thee, 
And  sly  M.P.s  bestow  their  cruel  wipes  ; 

But  the  old  horse  neighs  thee. 

And  zebras  praise  thee. 
Asses,  I  mean — that  have  as  many  stripes  I 

III. 

Hast  thou  not  taught  the  Drover  to  forbear, 

In  Smithfield's  muddy,  murderous,  vile  environ,— 

Staying  his  lifted  bludgeon  in  the  air  I 

Bullocks  don't  wear 

Oxide  of  iron  ! 
The  cruel  Jarvy  thou  has  summon'd  oft, 
Enforcing  mercy  on  the  coarse  Yahoo, 
That  thought  his  horse  the  courser  of  the  two— 
Whilst  Swift  smiled  down  aloft  ! — 


TO  RICHARD  MARTIN,  ESQ.,  M.P,  6t 

Oh,  worthy  pair !  for  this,  when  ye  inhabit 
Bodies  of  birds — (if  so  the  spirit  shifts 
From  flesh  to  feather) — when  the  clcwn  uplifts 
His  hand  against  the  sparrow's  nest,  \.o  grab  it,— 
He  shall  not  harm  the  Martins  and  the  Swifts  t 

IV. 

Ah  !  when  Dean  Swift  was  quick,  how  he  enhanced 
The  horse  ! — and  humbled  biped  man  like  Plato  ! 
But  now  he's  dead,  the  charger  is  mischanced, 
Gone  backward  in  the  world — and  not  advanced,— 

Remember  Cato  ! 
Swift  was  the  horse's  champion — not  the  King's, 

Whom  Southey  sings, 
Mounted  on  Pegasus — would  he  -were  thrown  1 
He'll  wear  that  ancient  hackney  to  the  bone, 
Like  a  mere  clothes-horse  airing  royal  things  I 
Ah,  well-a-day  !  the  ancients  did  not  use 
Their  steeds  so  cruelly  ! — let  it  debar  men 
From  wanton  rowelling  and  whip's  abuse- 
Look  at  the  ancients'  Muse  I 
Look  at  their  Carmen  I 


▼. 

O  Martin  !  how  thine  eye — 
That  one  would  think  had  put  aside  its  lashes,— 
That  can't  bear  gashes 
Thro'  any  horse's  side,  must  ache  to  spy 
That  horrid  window  fronting  Fetter  Lane, — 
For  there's  a  nag  the  crows  have  pick'd  for  victual^ 
Or  some  man  painted  in  a  bloody  vein — 
Gods  !  is  there  no  Horse-spital  I 
That  such  raw  shows  must  sicken  the  humane  I 
Sure  Mr  Whittle 
Loves  thee  but  little. 
To  let  that  poor  horse  hnger  in  his />ane  I 

VI. 

Oh,  build  a  Brookes's  Theatre  for  horses  ! 
Oh,  wipe  away  the  national  reproach^ 

And  find  a  decent  Vulture  for  their  corses  I 
And  in  thy  funeral  track 
Four  sorry  steeds  shall  follow  in  each  coach  I 

Steeds  that  confess  "the  luxury  o(  wo  !" 
True  mourning  steeds,  in  no  extempore  black, 

And  many  a  wretched  hack 
Shall  sorrow  for  thee, — sore  with  kick  and  blow 
And  bloody  gash — it  is  the  Indian  knack — 


TO  THE  GREAT  UNKA'OIV?/. 

(Save  that  the  savage  is  his  own  tormentor)— 
Banting  shall  weep  too  in  his  sable  scarf— 
The  biped  woe  the  quadruped  shall  enter, 
And  Man  and  Horse  go  half  and  half, 
As  if  their  griefs  met  in  a  common  Centaur  t 


ODE  TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWN, 

"  Ob,  breathe  not  his  name  1 "—  Moork. 

I. 

Thou  Great  Unknown  ! 
I  do  not  mean  Eternity  nor  Death, 

That  vast  incog.  ! 
For  I  suppose  thou  hast  a  living  breath, 
Howbeit  we  know  not  from  whose  lungs  'tis  blown. 

Thou  man  of  fog  ! 
Parent  of  many  children— child  of  none  ! 

Nobody's  son  ! 
Nobody's  daughter— but  a  parent  still » 
Still  but  an  ostrich  parent  of  a  batch 
Of  orphan  eggs,— left  to  the  world  to  hatch. 

Superlative  Nil ! 
A  vox  and  nothing  more,— yet  not  Vauxhall ; 
A  head  in  papers,  yet  without  a  curl ! 

Not  the  Invisible  Girl  ! 
No  hand — but  a  handwriting  on  a  wall— 

A  popular  nonentity, 
Still  call'd  the  same, — without  identity  J 

A  lark,  heard  out  of  sight, — 
A  nothing  shined  upon,— invisibly  bright^ 

"  Dark  whh  excess  of  light !  " 
Constable's  literary  John-a-nokes— 
The  real  Scottish  wizard— to  no  which. 
Nobody — in  a  niche  ; 
Every  one's  hoax  ! 
Maybe  Sir  Walter  Scott— 
Perhaps  not  ! 
Why  dost  thou  so  conceal  and  puzzle  curious  folk*? 

II. 

Thou, — whom  the  second-sighted  never  saw, 
The  Master  Fiction  of  fictitious  history  ! 

Chief  Nong  tonir  paw  ! 
No  mister  in  the  world — and  vet  all  mystety  f 
The  "tricksy  spirit"  of  a  Scotch  Cock  Lane— 
A  novel  ]\i\\\\x%^  puzzling  the  world's  brain — 


TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWN. 

A  man  of  magic — yet  no  talisman  ! 

A  man  of  clair  obscure — not  him  o'  the  moon  I 

A  star — at  noon  ; 
A  non-descriptus  in  a  caravan  ; 
A  private — of  no  corps — a  northern  light 
In  a  dark  lantern, — Bogie  in  a  crape — 
A  figure — but  no  shape  ; 
A  vizor — and  no  knight ; 
The  real  abstract  hero  of  the  age  ; 
The  staple  Stranger  of  the  stage  ; 
A  Some  One  made  in  every  man's  presumption, 
Frankenstein's  monster — but  instinct  with  gumption  ; 
Another  strange  state  captive  in  the  north, 
Constable-guarded  in  an  iron  mask — 
Still  let  me  ask, 
Hast  thou  no  silver  platter, 
No  door-plate,  or  no  card — or  some  such  matter, 
To  scrawl  a  name  upon,  and  then  cast  forth  ? 

III. 

Thou  Scottish  Barmecide,  feeding  the  hunger 
Of  Curiosity  with  airy  gammon ! 

Thou  mystery-monger. 
Dealing  it  out  like  middle  cut  of  salmon, 
That  people  buy  and  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it 
(Howbeit  that  puzzle  never  hurts  the  sale  of  it) ; 
Thou  chief  of  authors  mystic  and  abstractical. 
That  lay  their  proper  bodies  on  the  shelf — 
Keeping  thyself  so  truly  to  thyself. 

Thou  Zimmerman  made  practical  { 
Thou  secret  fountain  of  a  Scottish  style, 

That,  like  the  Nile, 
Hideth  its  source  wherever  it  is  bred. 

But  still  keeps  disemboguing 

(Not  disembroguing) 
Thro'  such  broad  sandy  mouths  without  a  head  I 
Thou  disembodied  author — not  yet  dead, — 
The  whole  world's  literary  Absentee  ! 

Ah  !  wherefore  hast  thou  fled. 
Thou  learned  Nemo — wise  to  a  degree 

Anonymous  L.  L.  D.  ? 

IV. 

Thou  nameless  captain  of  the  nameiess  gang 
That  do — and  inquests  cannot  say  who  did  it  I 

Wert  thou  at  Mrs  Donatty's  death-pang? 
Hast  thou  made  gravy  of  Wear's  watch — or  hid  it  ? 
Hast  thou  a  Blue-Beard  chamber?  Heaven  forbid  it! 

I  should  be  very  loth  to  see  thee  hang  ! 


TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWIT. 

I  hope  thou  hast  an  ali'^i  well  plann'd, 
An  innocent,  altho'  an  ink-black  hand. 

Tho'  thou  hast  newly  turn'd  thy  private  bolt  OS 

The  curiosity  of  all  invaders — 
I  hope  thou  art  merely  closeted  with  Colton, 
Who  knows  a  little  of  the  Holy  Land, 

Writing  thy  next  new  novel — The  Crusaders  t 

V. 

Perhaps  thou  wert  even  born 
To  be  Unknown. — Perhaps  hung,  some  foggy  mom. 
At  Captain  Coram's  charitable  wicket, 

Penn'd  to  a  ticket 
That  Fate  had  made  illegible,  foreseeing 
The  future  great  unmentionable  being.— 

Perhaps  thou  hast  ridden, 
A  scholar  poor,  on  St  Augustine's  back, 
Like  Chatterton,  and  found  a  dusty  pack 

Of  Rowley  novels  in  an  old  chest  hidden  ; 
A  little  hoard  of  clever  simulation, 

That  took  the  town — and  Constable  has  bidden 
Some  hundred  pounds  for  a  continuation — 
To  keep  and  clothe  thee  in  genteel  starvation. 

VI. 

I  liked  thy  Waverley — first  of  thy  breeding ; 

I  like  its  modest  "  sixty  years  ago," 
As  if  it  was  not  meant  for  ages'  readmg. 

I  don't  like  Ivanhoe, 
Tho'  Dymoke  does — it  makes  him  think  of  clattering 

In  iron  overalls  before  the  king, 
Secure  from  battering,  to  ladies  flattering. 

Tuning  his  challenge  to  the  gauntlets'  ring— 
Oh,  better  far  than  all  that  anvil  clang 

It  was  to  hear  thee  touch  the  famous  string 
Of  Robin  Hood's  tough  bow,  and  make  it  twan^ 
Rousing  him  up,  all  verdant,  with  his  clan, 
Like  Sagittarian  Pan  l 

VII. 

I  like  Guy  Mannering — but  not  that  sham  son 
Of  Brown. — I  like  that  literary  Sampson, 
Nine-tenths  a  Dyer,  with  a  smack  of  Porson. 
I  like  Dirk  Hatteraick,  that  rough  sea  Orson 

That  slew  the  Guager  ; 
And  Dandie  Dinmont,  like  old  Ursa  Major ; 
And  Merrilies,  young  Bertram's  old  defender, 

That  Scottish  Witch  of  Endor, 
That  doom'd  thy  fame.     She  was  the  Witch,  I  take  it. 
To  tell  a  great  man's  fortune— or  to  make  it  I 


TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWN.  6^ 


I  like  thy  Antiquary.     With  his  fit  on, 

He  makes  me  think  of  Mr  Britton, 
Who  has— or  had — wcithin  his  garden  wall, 
A  miniature  Stone  Henge,  so  very  sm-all 

The  sparrows  find  it  difficult  to  sit  on  ; 
And  Dousterswivel,  like  Poyais'  M'Gregor  ; 
And  Edie  Ochiltree,  that  old  Blue  Beggar^ 

Painted  so  cleverly 
I  think  thou  surely  knowest  Mrs  Beverly  ! 
I  like  thy  Barber— him  that  fired  the  Beacon—' 
But  that's  a  tender  subject  now  to  speak  on ! 

IX. 

I  like  long-arm'd  Rob  Roy. — His  very  charms 

Fashion'd  him  for  renown  ! — In  sad  sincerity, 

The  man  that  robs  or  writes  must  have  long  armt 
If  he's  to  hand  his  deeds  down  to  posterity  ! 
Witness  Miss  Biffin's  posthumous  prosperity, 
Her  poor  brown  crumpled  mummy  (nothing  more) 

Bearing  the  name  she  bore, 
A  thing  Time's  tooth  is  tempted  to  destroy  ! 
But  Roys  can  never  die — why  else,  in  verity, 
Is  Paris  echoing  with  "  Vive  le  Roy  I " 
Aye,  Rob  shall  live  again,  and  deathless  Di 
Vernon,  of  course,  shall  often  live  again — 
Whilst  there's  a  stone  in  Newgate,  or  a  chaiOy 

Who  can  pass  by 
Nor  feel  the  Thief's  in  prison  and  at  hand  ? 
There  be  Old  Bailey  Jarvys  on  the  stand  1 


I  like  thy  Landlord's  Tales  !— I  like  that  Idol 
Of  love  and  Lammermoor — the  blue-eyed  maid 
That  led  to  church  the  mounted  cavalcade, 

And  then  puU'd  up  with  such  a  bloody  bridal  I 
Throwing  equestrian  Hymen  on  his  haunches— 
I  like  the  family — not  silver — branches 
That  hold  the  tapers 

To  hght  the  serious  Legend  of  Montrose^— 
I  like  M'Aulay's  second-sighted  vapours, 
As  if  he  could  not  walk  or  talk  alone, 
Without  the  devil — or  the  Great  Unknown,— 

Dalgetty  is  the  dearest  of  Ducrows  1 

XI. 

I  like  St  Leonard's  Lily — drench'd  with  dew  ! 

I  like  thy  Vision  of  the  Covenanters, 

That  bloody-minded  Graham  shot  and  slew. 


TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWlf, 

I  like  the  battle  lost  and  won, 

The  hurlyburly's  bravclv  done, 
The  warlike  gallops  and  the  warlike  cantsvs  ! 
I  hke  that  girded  chieftain  of  the  Ranters, 
Ready  to  preach  down  heathens,  or  to  grapple^ 

With  one  eye  on  his  sword, 

And  one  upon  the  Word, — 
How  he  would  cram  the  Caledonian  Chapel ! 
I  like  stern  Claverhouse,  though  he  doth  dapple 
His  raven  steed  with  blood  of  many  a  corse—" 
I  like  dear  Mrs  Headrigg,  that  unravels 

Her  texts  of  Scripture  on  a  trotting  horse- 
She  is  so  like  Rae  Wilson  when  he  travels  1 

XII. 

I  like  thy  Kenilworth — but  I'm  not  going 

To  take  a  Retrospective  Re- Review 
Of  all  thy  dainty  novels— merely  showing 
The  old  familiar  faces  of  a  {qw, 
The  question  to  renew, 
How  thou  canst  leave  such  deeds  without  a  name, 
Forego  the  unclaim'd  dividends  of  fame,  - 
Forego  the  smiles  of  literary  houris — 
Mid- Lothian's  trump,  and  Fife's  shrill  note  of  praise, 

And  all  the  Carse  of  Cowrie's, 
When  thoui  might'st  have  thy  statue  in  Cromarty — 

Or  see  t'ly  image  on  Italian  trays, 
Betwixt  Qiijeen  Caroline  and  Buonaparte, 

Be  painted  by  the  Titian  of  R.A.s, 
Or  vie  in  sign  boards  with  the  Royal  Guelph  ! 

Perhaps  have  thy  bust  set  cheek  by  jowl  with  Homer'aL 
Perhaps  send  out  plaster  proxies  of  thyself 
To  other  Englands  with  Australian  roamers— 
Mayhap,  in  Literary  Owhyhee 
Displace  the  native  wooden  gods,  or  be 
The  China-Lar  of  a  Canadian  shelf  1 


XIII. 

It  Is  not  modesty  that  bids  thee  hide- 
She  never  wastes  her  blushes  out  of  sight : 
It  is  not  to  invite 

The  world's  decision,  for  thy  fame  is  tried,— 

And  thy  fair  deeds  are  scatter'd  far  and  wide, 
Even  royal  heads  are  with  thy  readers  reckon'd,— 

From  men  in  trencher  caps  to  trencher  scholars 
In  crimson  collars. 
And  learned  Serjeants  in  the  Forty-second  ! 
Whither  by  land  or  sea  art  thou  not  beckon'd? 


TO  THE  GREAT  UNKNOWff. 

Mayhap  exported  from  the  Frith  of  Forth, 
Defying  distance  and  its  dim  control  ; 

Perhaps  read  about  Stromness,  and  reckon'd  worth 
A  brace  of  Miltons  for  capacious  soul — 

Perhaps  studied  in  the  whalers  farther  north, 
And  set  above  ten  Shakespeares  near  the  pole  1 

XIV. 

Oh,  when  thou  writest  by  Aladdin's  lamp, 
With  such  a  giant  genius  at  command, 

For  ever  at  thy  stamp, 
To  fill  thy  treasury  from  Fairy  Land, 
When  haply  thou  might'st  ask  the  pearly  hand 
Of  some  great  British  Vizier's  eldest  daughter, 

Tho'  princes  sought  her, 
And  lead  her  in  procession  hymeneal, 
Oh,  why  dost  thou  remain  a  Beau  Ideal ! 
Why  stay,  a  ghost,  on  the  Lethean  Wharf, 
Enveloped  in  Scotch  mist  and  gloomy  fogs  ? 
Why,  but  because  thou  art  some  puny  Dwarf, 
Some  hopeless  Imp,  like  Riquet  with  the  Tuft, 
Fearing,  for  all  thy  wit,  to  be  rebuff'd 
Or  bullied  by  our  great  reviewing  Gogs  I 

XV. 

What  in  this  masquing  age 
Maketh  Unknowns  so  many  and  so  shy  ? 

What  but  the  critic's  page  ? 
One  hath  a  cast  he  hides  from  the  world's  eye  ; 
Another  hath  a  wen, — he  won't  show  where; 

A  third  has  sandy  hair, 
A  hunch  upon  his  back,  or  legs  awry, — 
Things  for  a  vile  reviewer  to  espy  ! 
Another  hath  a  mangel-wurzel  nose, — 

Finally,  this  is  dimpled, 
Like  a  pale  crumpet  face,  or  that  is  pimpled,-— 
Things  for  a  monthly  critic  to  expose  : 
Nay,  what  is  thy  own  case — that,  being  small, 
Thou  choosest  to  be  nobody  at  all ! 

XVI. 

Well,  thou  art  prudent,  with  such  puny  bones^ 
E'en  like  Elshender,  the  mysterious  elf, 
That  shadowy  revelation  of  thyself — 

To  build  thee  a  small  hut  of  haunted  stones— 

For  certainly  the  first  pernicious  man 

That  ever  saw  thee,  would  quickly  draw  thee 

In  some  vile  literary  caravan — 


TO  JOSEPH  GRIMALDI,  SENIOR. 

■    Shown  for  a  shilling 
Would  be  thy  killing, 
Think  of  Crachami's  miserable  span  ! 
No  tinier  frame  the  tiny  spark  could  dwell  in 

Than  there  it  fell  in — 
But  when  she  felt  herself  a  show,  she  tried 
To  shrink  from  the  world's  eye,  poor  dwarf !— and  died  I 

XVII. 

Oh,  since  it  was  thy  fortune  to  be  born 
A  dwarf  on  some  Scotch  Ittch,  and  then  to  flinch 
From  all  the  Gog-like  jostle  of  great  men, 

Still  with  thy  small  crow  pen 
Amuse  and  charm  thy  lonely  hours  forlorn— 
.Still  Scottish  story  daintily  adorn  ; 

Be  still  a  shade — and  when  this  age  is  fled, 
When  we  poor  sons  and  daughters  of  reality 
Are  in  our  graves  forgotten  and  quite  dead, 
And  Time  destroys  our  mottoes  of  morality — • 
The  lithographic  hand  of  Old  Mortality 
Shall  still  restore  thy  emblem  on  the  stone, 

A  featureless  death's  head. 
And  rob  Oblivion  even  of  the  Unknown  f 


ODE  TO  JOSEPH  GRIM  A  LD I,  SENIOIL 


'  This  fellow's  wise  enough  to  pl.iy  the  fool, 
And  to  do  that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit." 

—Twelfth  Nigkk 


Joseph  !  they  say  thou'st  left  the  stag^ 

To  toddle  down  the  hill  of  life. 

And  taste  the  flannell'd  ease  of  age, 

Apart  from  pantomimic  strife — 

**  Retired— (for  Young  would  call  it  so)— « 

The  world  shut  out  "—in  Pleasant  Row  I 

II. 

And  hast  thou  really  wash'd  at  last 

From  each  white  cheek  the  red  half  moon  I 

And  all  thy  public  Clownship  cast, 

To  play  the  private  Pantaloon  ? 

All  youth — all  ages — yet  to  be 

Shall  have  a  heavy  miss  of  thee  I 


TO  JOSEPH  CRIMALDI,  SENIOJi. 


III. 

Thou  didst  not  preach  to  make  us  wise— 
Thou  hadst  no  finger  in  our  schooling — . 
Thou  didst  not  "lure  us  to  the  skies" — 
Thy  simple,  simple  trade  was — Fooling  ! 
And  yet,  Heaven  knows  !  we  could — we  can 
Much  "  better  spare  a  better  man  1 " 

IV. 

Oh,  had  it  pleased  the  gout  to  take 
The  reverend  Croly  from  the  stage. 
Or  Southey,  for  our  quiet's  sake. 
Or  Mr  Fletcher,  Cupid's  sage, 
Or,  damme  !  namby-pamby  Poole,—" 
Or  any  other  clown  or  fool ! 

V. 

Go,  Dibdin — all  that  bear  the  name  I 
Go,  Byeway  Highway  man  !  go  !  go  I 
Go,  Skeffy — man  of  painted  fame. 
But  leave  thy  partner,  painted  Joe  I 
I  could  bear  Kirby  on  the  wane, 
Or  Signor  Paulo  with  a  sprain  1 

VI. 

Had  Joseph  Wilfred  Parkins  made 
His  grey  hairs  scarce  in  private  peace-^ 
Had  Waithman  sought  a  rural  shade— 
Or  Cobbett  ta'en  a  turnpike  lease — 
Or  Lisle  Bowles  gone  to  Baalam  Hill-»# 
I  think  I  could  be  cheerful  still  i 

VII. 

Had  Medwin  left  off,  to  his  praise, 
Dead  lion  kicking,  like — a  friend  !— 
Had  long,  long  Irving  gone  his  ways, 
To  muse  on  death  at  Pender's  End- 
Ox  Lady  Morgan  taken  leave 
Of  Letters — still  I  might  not  grieve  I 

VIII, 

But,  Joseph — everybody's  Jo  !— 

Is  gone — and  grieve  1  will  and  must  I 

As  Hamlet  did  for  Yorick,  so 

Will  I  for  thee  (though  not  yet  dust), 

And  talk  as  he  did  when  he  miss'd 

The  kissing-crust  that  he  had  kiss'd  I 


rO  JOSEPH  GRIMALDI,  SEmOX, 


IX. 


Ah,  where  is  now  thy  rolling  head  ! 
Thy  winking,  reeling,  drunken  eyes 
(As  old  Catullus  would  have  said), 
Thy  oven-mouth,  that  swallow'd  pies- 
Enormous  hunger — monstrous  drowth  I— 
Thy  pockets  greedy  as  thy  mouth  1 


Ah,  where  thy  ears,  so  often  cufif'd — 

Thy  funny,  flapping,  filching  hands  ! 

Thy  partridge  bod\-,  always  stuft''d 
With  waifs,  and  strays,  and  contrabands  !— 
Thy  foot — like  Berkeley's  Fooie — for  why  ? 
'Twas  often  made  to  wipe  an  eye ! 

XI. 

Ah,  where  thy  legs — that  witty  pair  ! 
For  "great  wits  jump  "—and  so  did  they! 
Lord  !  how  they  leap'd  in  lamplight  air  ! 
Caper'd — and  bounced— and  strode  away  I— 
That  years  should  tame  the  legs— alack  I 
I've  seen  spring  thro'  an  Almanack  I 

XII. 

But  bounds  will  have  their  bound — the  shockl 
Of  Time  will  cramp  the  nimblest  toes  ; 
And  those  that  frisk'd  in  silken  clocks 
May  look  to  limp  in  fleecy  hose — 
One  only — (Champion  of  the  ring) 
Could  ever  make  his  Winter, — Spring  I 

XIII. 

And  gout,  that  ov'^%  no  odds  between 
The  toe  of  Czar  and  toe  of  Clown, 
Will  visit — but  I  did  not  mean 
To  moralise,  though  I  am  grown 
Thus  sad, — Thy  going  seem'd  to  beat 
A  muffled  drum  for  Fun's  retreat  I 

XIV. 

And,  may  be — 'tis  no  time  to  smother 
A  sigh,  when  two  prime  wags  of  London 
Are  gone— thou,  Joseph,  one— the  otheiy 
A  Joe  ! — "  Sic  transit  gloria  MundenV* 
A  third  departure  some  insist  on, — 
Stage-apoplexy  threatens  Liston  ! — 


TO  JOSEPH  GRIMALDI^  SENIOR, 


Nay,  then,  let  Sleeping  Beauty  sleep 
With  ancient  '■*■  Dozey"  to  the  dregs — 
Let  Mother  Goose  wear  mournirg  deep, 
And  put  a  hatchment  o'er  her  eggs  ! 
Let  Farley  weep — for  Magic's  man 
Is  gone, — his  Christmas  Caliban  1 

XVI. 

Let  Kemble,  Forbes,  and  Willet  rain. 

As  tho'  they  walk'd  behind  thy  bier, — 

For  since  thou  wilt  not  play  again, 

What  matters, — if  in  heaven  or  here  I — 

Or  in  thy  grave,  or  in  thy  bed  ! — 

There's  Quick,*  might  just  as  well  be  dead  1 

XVII. 

Oh,  how  will  thy  departure  cloud 

The  lamplight  of  the  little  breast  ! 

The  Christmas  child  will  grieve  aloud 

To  miss  his  broadest  friend  and  best,— 

Poor  urchin  !  what  avails  to  him 

The  cold  New  Monthly's  Ghost  of  Grimm  f 

XVIII. 

For  who  like  thee  could  ever  stride  I 
Some  dozen  paces  to  the  mile  ! — 
The  motley,  medley  coach  provide— 
Or  like  Joe  Frankenstein  compile 
The  vegetable  man  complete  !— 
A  proper  Covent  Garden  feat  \ 

XIX. 

Oh,  who  like  thee  could  ever  drink, 

Or  eat,  swill,  swallow — bolt  and  choke  ! 

Nod,  weep,  and  hiccup — sneeze  and  wink?— • 

Thy  very  yawn  was  quite  a  joke  ! 

Tho'  Joseph,  Junior,  acts  not  ill, 

«  There's  no  Fool  like  the  old  Fool"  still  t 

XX. 

Joseph,  farewell !  dear  funny  Joe  ! 
We  met  with  mirth, — we  part  in  pain  t 
For  many  a  long,  long  year  must  go 
Ere  Fun  can  see  thy  like  again — 
For  Nature  does  not  keep  great  stores 
Of  perfect  Clowns — that  are  not  Boors  I 

One  of  the  old  actors  ; — still  a  performer  (but  in  private)  of  Old  RapicL 


n 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  STEAM-  WASHING 
COMPANY. 

"  Archer.  How  many  are  there,  Scrub  ? 
Scrub.   Five  and  forty,  sir." — Beaux  Stratagem. 
**  For  shame— let  the  linen  alone  1 " — Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 

Mr  Scrub — Mr  Slop — or  whoever  you  be  ! 
The  Cock  of  Steam  Laundries, — the  head  Patentee 
Of  Associate  Cleansers, — chief  founder  2.nd  prime 
Of  the  tirm  for  the  wholesale  distillin;^  of  grime- 
Copartners  and  dealers  in  linen's  propriety — 
That  make  washing  public — and  wash  in  society— 
Oh,  lend  me  your  ear  !  if  that  ear  can  forego, 
For  a  moment,  the  music  that  bubbles  below, — 
From  your  new  Surrey  Geisers,*  all  foaming  and  hot,— 
That  soft  '•^  simmer's  sang"  so  endear'd  to  the  Scot  ; 
If  your  hands  may  stand  still,  or  your  steam  without  danger- 
If  your  suds  will  not  cool,  and  a  mere  simple  stranger, 
Both  to  you  and  to  washing,  may  put  in  a  rub, — 
Oh,  wipe  out  your  Amazon  arms  from  the  tub, — 
And  lend  me  your  ear, — Let  me  modestly  plead 
For  a  race  that  your  labours  may  soon  supersede — 
For  a  race  that,  now  washing  no  living  affords, 
Like  Grimaldi  must  leave  their  aquatic  old  boards, 
Not  with  pence  in  their  pockets  to  keep  them  at  ease, 
Not  with  bread  in  the  funds,  or  investments  of  cheese,— 
But  to  droop  like  sad  willows  that  lived  by  a  stream. 
Which  the  sun  has  suck'd  up  into  vapour  and  steam. 
Ah  !  look  at  the  laundress,  before  you  begrudge 
Her  hard  daily  bread  to  that  laudable  drudge  ; 
When  chanticleer  singeth  his  earliest  matins, 
She  slips  her  amphibious  feet  in  her  pattens, 
And  beginneth  her  toil  while  the  morn  is  still  grey, 
As  if  she  was  washing  the  ni;4ht  into  day  ; 
Not  with  sleeker  or  rosier  fingers  Aurora 
Beginneth  to  scatter  the  dewdrops  before  her  ; 
Not  Venus,  that  rose  from  the  billow  so  early, 
Look'd  down  on  the  foam  with  a  forehead  more/^ar^f— 
Her  head  is  involved  in  an  aeiial  mist, 
And  a  bright-beaded  bracelet  encircles  her  wrist ; 
Her  visage  glows  warm  with  the  ardour  of  duty  ; 
She's  Industry's  moral — she's  all  moral  beauty  1 
Growing  brighter  and  brighter  at  every  rub — ■' 
Would  any  man  ruin  her? — No,  Mr  Scrub  ! 

*  Geisers — the  boiling  springs  in  Iceland. 
t  Query,  purly  'i — Printer's  Devil. 


TO  THE  STEAM-WASHING  COMPANY. 

No  man  that  is  manly  would  work  her  mishap — 
No  man  that  is  manly  would  covet  her  cap — 
Nor  her  apron — her  hose — nor  her  gown  made  of  stuff — 
Nor  her  gin — nor  her  tea — nor  her  wet  pinch  of  snuff! 
Alas  !  so  she  thought — but  that  slippery  hope 
Has  betray'd  her — as  tho'  she  had  trod  on  her  soap  I 
And  she,  whose  support,  like  the  fishes  that  fly, 
Was  to  have  her  fins  wet,  must  now  drop  from  her  sky- 
She  whose  living  it  was,  and  a  part  of  her  fare, 
To  be  damp'd  once  a  day,  like  the  great  white  sea-bear, 
With  her  hands  like  a  sponge,  and  her  head  like  a  mop- 
Quite  a  living  absorbent  that  revell'd  in  slop — 
She  that  paddled  in  water,  must  walk  upon  sand. 
And  sigh  for  her  deeps  like  a  turtle  on  land  ! 


Lo,  then,  the  poor  laundress,  all  wretched  she  stands, 

Instead  of  a  counterpane  wringing  her  hands  ! 

All  haggard  and  pinch'd,  going  down  in  life's  vale, 

With  no  faggot  for  burning,  like  Allan-a-dale  ! 

No  smoke  from  her  flue— and  no  steam  from  her  pane, 

Where  once  she  watch'd  heaven,  fearing  God  and  the  rain— 

Or  gazed  o'er  her  bleachfield  so  fairly  engross'd, 

Till  the  lines  wander'd  idle  from  pillar  to  post  ! 

Ah,  where  are  the  playful  young  pinners — ah,  where 

The  harlequin  quilts  that  cut  capers  in  air — 

The  brisk  waltzing  stockings,  the  white  and  the  black, 

That  danced  on  the  tight-rope,  or  swung  on  the  slack— 

The  light  sylph-like  garments,  so  tenderly  pinn'd, 

That  blew  mto  shape,  and  embodied  the  wind  ! 

There  was  white  on  the  grass,  there  was  white  on  the  spray—* 

Her  garden,  it  look'd  like  a  garden  of  May ! 

But  now  all  is  dark — not  a  shirt's  on  a  shrub — 

You've  ruin'd  her  prospects  in  life,  Mr  Scrub  ! 

You've  ruin'd  her  custom — now  families  drop  her — 

From  her  silver  reduced — nay,  reduced  from  her  copper! 

The  last  of  her  washing  is  done  at  her  eye. 

One  poor  little  kerchief  that  never  gets  dry  ! 

From  mere  lack  of  linen  she  can't  lay  a  cloth. 

And  boils  neither  barley  nor  alkaline  broth  ; 

But  her  children  come  round  her  as  victuals  grow  scant, 

And  recall,  with  foul  faces,  the  source  of  their  want — 

When  she  thinks  of  their  poor  little  mouths  to  be  fed. 

And  then  thinks  of  her  trade  that  is  utterly  dead, 

And  even  its  pearl-ashes  laid  in  the  grave — 

Whilst  her  tub  is  a  dry  rotting,  stave  after  stave, 

And  the  greatest  of  Coopers,  even  he  that  they  dub 

Sir  Astley,  can't  bind  up  her  heart  or  her  tub, — 

Need  you  wonder  she  curses  your  bones,  Mr  Scrub  ! 

Need  you  wonder,  when  steam  has  deprived  her  of  bread, 

If  she  prays  that  the  evil  may  y\%\\.your  head — 


94  TO  THE  STEAM- WASHING  COMPANY. 

Nay,  scald  all  the  heads  of  your  Washin;,;  Committee,— 
If  she  wishes  you  all  the  soot  blacks  of  the  city — 
In  short,  not  to  mention  all  plagues  without  number, 
If  she  wishes  you  all  in  the  Wash  at  the  H umber  ! 

• 

Ah  !  perhaps  in  some  moment  of  drowth  and  despair, 

When  her  linen  got  scarce,  and  her  washmg  grew  rare — 

When  the  sum  of  her  suds  might  be  summ'd  in  a  bowl, 

And  the  rusty  cold  iron  quite  enter'd  her  soul — 

When,  perhaps,  the  last  glance  of  lier  wandering  eye 

Had  caught  "  the  Cock  Laundresses'  Coach  "  going  by, 

On  her  lines  that  hung  idle,  to  waste  the  line  weather, 

And  she  thought  of  her  wrongs  and  her  rights  both  together, 

In  a  lather  of  passion,  that  froth'd  as  it  rose, 

Too  angry  for  grammar,  too  lofty  for  prose, 

On  her  sheet — if  a  sheet  were  still  left  her — to  write. 

Some  remonstrance  like  this  then,  perchance,  saw  the  light  :- 


LETTER  OF  REMONSTRANCE  FROM 
BRID  GE  T  JONES 

To  the  Noblemen  and  Gentlemen  forming  the  Washing  Committee, 

It's  a  shame,  so  it  is, — men  can't  Let  alone 

Jobs  as  is  Woman's  right  to  do — and  go  about  there  Own^ 

Theirs  Reforfns  enufif  Alreddy  without  your  new  schools 

For  washing  to  sit  Up, — and  push  the  Old  Tubs  from  their  stools ! 

But  your  just  like  the  Raddicals, — for  upsetting  of  the  Sudds 

When  the  world  wagged  well  enuff — and  Wommen  washed  your  old 

dirty  duds, 
I'm  Certain  sure  Enuff  your  Ann  Sisters  had  no  stream  Ingins,  that's 

Flat,— 
But  I  Warrant  your  Four  Fathers  went  as  Tidy  and  gentlemanny  for 

all  that— 
I  suppose  your  the  Family  as  lived  in  the  Great  Kittle 
I  see  on  Clapham  Commun,  some  times  a  very  considerable  period 

back  when  I  were  little. 
And  they  Said  it  went  with  Steem, — But  that  was  a  joke  ! 
For   I  never  see  none  come  of  it, — that's  out  of  it — but  only  sum 

Smoak — 
And  for  All  your  Power  of  Horses  about  your  Ingins  you  never  had 

but  Two 
In  my  time  to  draw  you  About  to  Fairs — and  curse  you,  you  know 

that's  true  ! 
And  for  All  your  fine  Perspectuses, — howsomever  you  bewhich  'em, 
Theirs  as  Pretty  ones  off  Primerows  Hill,  as  ever  a  one  at  Mitchun^ 


TO  THE  STEAM-  WASHING  COMPANY.  7.i 

Thof  I  cant  sea  What  Prospectives  and  washing  has  with  one  another 

to  Do- 
lt aant  as  if  a  Bird'seye  Hankicher  can  take  a  Birdshigh  view  ! 
But  Thats  your  look  out — I've  not  much  to  do  with  that — But  pleas 

God  to  hold  up  fine, 
Id  show  you  caps  and  pinners  and  small  things  as  lillywhit  as  Ever 

crosst  the  Line 
Without  going  any  Father  off  then  Little  Parodies  Place, 
And  Thats  more  than  you  Can — and  111  say  it  behind  your  face — 
But  when  Folks  talks  of  washing,  it  ant  for  you  too  Speak, — 
As  kept  Dockter  Pattyson  out  of  his  Shirt  for  a  Weak  ! 
Thinks  I,  when  I  heard  it — Well  thear's  a  Pretty  go  ! 
That  comes  o'  not  marking  of  things  or  washing  out  the  marks,  and 

Huddling  'em  up  so  ! 
Till  Their  frends  comes  and  owns  them,  like  drownded  corpeses  in  a 

Vault,  i 

But  may  Hap  you  havint  Larn'd  to  spel — and  That  ant  your  Fault, 
Only  you  ought  to  leafe  the  Linnins  to  them  as  has  Larn'd, — 
For  if  it  warnt  for  Washing, — and  whare  Bills  is  concarnd 
What's  the  Yuse,  of  all  the  world,  for  a  Wommans  Edication, 
And  Their  Being  maid  SchoUards  of  Sundays — fit  for  any  Cityation. 


Well,  what  I  says  is  This — when  every  Kittle  has  its  spout, 

Theirs  no  nead  for  Companys  to  puff  steam  about ! 

To  be  sure  its  very  Well,  when  Their  ant  enuff  Wind 

For  blowing  up  Boats  with, — but  not  to  hurt  human  kind 

Like  that  Pearkins  with  his  Blunderbush,  that's  loaded  with  hot  water, 

Thof  a  Sherrif  might  know  Better,  than  make  things  for  slaughtter, 

As  if  War  warnt  Cruel  enuff — wherever  it  befalls, 

Without  shooting  poor  sogers,  with  sich  scalding  hot  washing  balls,— 

But  thats  not  so  Bad  as  a  Sett  of  Bear  Faced  Scrubbs 

As  joins  their  Sopes  together,  and  sits  up  Stream  rubbing  Clubs, 

For  washing  Dirt  Cheap, — and  eating  other  Peple's  grubs  ! 

Which  is  all  verry  Fine  for  you  and  your  Patent  Tea, 

But  I  wonders  How  Poor  Wommen  is  to  get  Their  Bo-He  ! 

They  must  drink  Hunt  wash  (the  only  wash  God  nose  there  will  be  !) 

And  their  Little  drop  of  Somethings  as  they  takes  for  their  Goods, 

When  you  and  your  Steam  has  ruined  (G — d  forgive  mee)  their  lively 

Hoods, 
Poor  Women  as  was  born  to  Washing  in  their  youth  ! 
And  now  must  go  and  Larn  other  Buisnesses  Four  Sooth  ! 
But  if  so  be  They  leave  their  Lines  what  are  they  to  go  at — 
They  won't  do  for  Angell's — nor  any  Trade  like  That, 
Nor  we  cant  Sow  Babby  Work, — for  that's  all  Bespoke, — 
For  the  Queakers  in  Bridle  !  and  a  vast  of  the  confind  Folk 
Do  their  own  of  Themselves — even  the  bettermost  of  em — aye,  anj 

evn  them  of  middling  degrees — 
Why  God  help  you  Babby  Linen  ant  Bread  and  Cheese  ! 
Nor  we  can't  go  a  hammering  the  roads  into  Dust, 
But  we  must  all  go  and  be  Bankers, — and  that's  what  we  must ! 


y6  TV  THE  STEAM-WASHING  COMPANY, 

God  nose  you  oght  to  have  more  Concern  for  our  Sects, 

When  you  nose  you  have  suck'd  us  and  iiang'd  round  our  Mutherly 

necks, 
And  remembers  what  you  Owes  to  Wommen  Besides  washing — 
You  ant,  curse  you,  like  IVIen  to  go  a  slusliing  and  sloshing 
In  mob  caps,  and  pattins,  adoing  of  Females  Labers 
And  prettily  jear'd  At  you  great  Horse  God  Meril  things,  ant  you  now 

by  you  next  door  neighbours — 
Lawk  I  thinks  I  see  you  with  your  Sleaves  tuckt  up 
No  more  like  Washing  than  is  drownding  of  a  Pupp — 
And  for  all  Your  Fine  Water  Works  going  round  and  round 
They'll  scruntch  your  Bones  some  day — I'll  be  bound 
And  no  more  nor  be  a  gudgement, — for  it  cant  come  to  good 
To  sit  up  agin  Providince,  which  your  a  doing, — nor  not  fit  It  should, 
For  man  warnt  maid  for  Wommens  starvation, 
Na[  to  do  away  Laundrisses  as  is  Links  of  Creation — 
AnS  cant  be  dun  without  in  any  Country  But  a  Hottinpot  Nation. 
Ah,  I  wish  our  Minister  would  take  one  of  your  Tubbs 
And  preach  a  Sermon  in  it,  and  give  you  some  good  rubs — 
But  I  warrants  you  reads  (for  you  cant  spel  we  nose)  nayther  Bybills 

or  Good  Tracks, 
Or  youd  no  better  than  Taking  the  Close  off  one's  Backs — 
And  let  your  neighbours  oxin  an  Asses  alone, — 
And  every  Thing  thats  hern, — and  give  every  one  their  Hone  1 

Well,  its  God  for  us  All,  and  every  Washer  Wommen  for  herself, 

And  so  you  might,  without  shoving  any  on  us  off  the  shelf, 

But  if  you  warnt  Noddis  youd  Let  wommen  abe 

And  pull  off  Your  Pattins, — and  leave  the  washing  to  we 

That  nose  what's  what — Or  mark  what  I  say, 

Youl  make  a  fine  Kittle  of  fish  of  Your  Close  some  day — 

When  the  Aulder  men  wants  Their  Bibs  and  their  ant  nun  at  all. 

And  Crist  mass  cum — and  never  a  Cloth  to  lay  in  Gild  Hall, 

Or  send  a  damp  shirt  to  his  Worship  the  Mare 

Till  hes  rumatiz  Poor  Man,  and  cant  set  uprite  in  his  Chare — 

Besides  Miss-Matching  Larned  Ladys  Hose,  as  is  sent  for  you  not  tO 

wash  (for  you  dont  wash)  but  to  stew 
And  make  Peples  Stockins  yeller  as  oght  to  be  Blew 
With  a  vast  more  like  That, — and  all  along  of  Steam 
Which  warnt  meand  by  Nater  for  any  sich  skeam — 
But  thats  your  Losses  and  youl  have  to  make  It  Good, 
And  I  cant  say  I'm  Sorry  afore  God  if  you  shoud, 
For  men  mought  Get  their  Bread  a  great  many  ways 
Without  taking  ourn, — aye,  and  Moor  to  your  Prays 
If  You  Was  even  to  Turn  Dust  Men  a  dry  sifting  Dirt, 
But  you  oughtiut  to  Hurt  Them  as  never  Did  You  no  Hurt ! 
Yourn  with  Anymocity, 

Bridget  Jones. 


n 


ODE  TO  CAPTAIN  PARRY, 

f  By  the  North  Pole  I  do  challenge  thee  I " — Lov^s  Labour  Lett, 
I. 

Parry,  my  man  !  has  thy  brave  leg 
Yet  struck  its  foot  against  the  peg 

On  which  the  world  is  spun  ? 
Or  hast  thou  found  No  Thoroughfare 
Writ  by  the  hand  of  Nature  there 

Where  man  has  never  run  ? 

II. 

Hast  thou  yet  traced  the  Great  Unknovitl 
Of  channels  in  the  Frozen  Zone, 

Or  held  at  Icy  Bay  ? 
Hast  thou  still  miss'd  the  proper  track 
For  homeward  Indiamen,  that  lack 

A  bracing  by  the  way  ? 

III. 

Still  hast  thou  wasted  toil  and  trouble 
On  nothing  but  the  North-Sea  Bubble 

Of  geographic  scholar? 
Or  found  new  ways  for  ships  to  shape^ 
Instead  of  winding  round  the  Cape, 

A  short  cut  thro'  the  collar  ! 

IV. 

Hast  found  the  way  that  sighs  were  sent  to  • 
The  Pole — tho'  God  knows  whom  they  went  to  I 

That  track  reveal'd  to  Pope — 
Or  if  the  Arctic  waters  sally, 
Or  terminate  in  some  blind  alley, 

A  chilly  path  to  grope  ? 

V. 

Alas  !  tho'  Ross,  in  love  with  snows, 
Has  painted  them  couleur  de  rose^ 

It  is  a  dismal  doom, 
As  Claudio  saith,  to  Winter  thrice, 
**In  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice"  — 

All  bright, — and  yet  all  gloom  ! 

*•  And  waft  a  sigh  from  Indus  to  the  Pole. " — Eloisa  to  AhehrcL 


98  TO  CAPTAIN  PARRY. 


VI. 

Tia  well  for  Gheber  souls,  that  sit 

Before  the  fire  and  worship  it 
With  pecks  of  Wallsend  coals, 

With  feet  upon  the  fender's  front, 

Roasting  their  corns — Uke  Mr  Hunt- 
To  speculate  on  poles. 

VII. 

Tis  easy  for  our  Naval  Board— 
Tis  easy  for  our  Civic  Lord 

Of  London  and  of  ease, 
That  lies  in  ninety  feet  of  down, 
With  fur  on  his  nocturnal  gown, 

To  talk  of  Frozen  Seas  ! 

VIII. 

Tis  fine  for  Monsieur  Ude  to  sit. 
And  prate  about  the  mundane  spit, 

And  babble  of  Cook's  track — 
He'd  roast  the  leather  off  his  toes 
Ere  he  would  trudge  thro'  polar  saowS 

To  plant  a  British  Jack  I 

IX. 

Oh,  not  the  proud  licentious  greats 
That  travel  on  a  carpet-skate, 

Can  value  toils  like  thine  ! 
What  'tis  to  take  a  '  Hecla'  rang^ 
Through  ice  unknown  to  Mr  Grange 

And  alpine  lumps  of  brine  ! 

X. 

But  we,  that  mount  the  Hill  o'  Rhyme, 
Can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  lofty  slippery  steep. 
Ah  !  there  are  more  Snow  Hills  than  that 
Which  doth  black  Newgate,  like  a  hat, 

Upon  its  forehead,  keejv 

XI. 

Perchance  thou'rt  now — while  I  am  writing-* 

Feeling  a  bear's  wet  grinder  biting 

About  thy  frozen  spine  ! 
Or  thou  thyself  art  eating  whale, 
Oily,  and  underdone,  and  stale. 

That,  haply,  crosi'd  thy  line  ! 


TO  CAPTAIN  PARRY.  J9 


XII. 

But  111  not  dream  such  drearr^  of  ill-^ 
Rather  will  I  believe  thee  still 

Safe  cellar'd  in  the  snow, — 
Reciting  many  a  gallant  story 
Of  British  kings  and  British  glory, 

To  crony  Esquimaux — 

XIII. 

Cheering  that  dismal  game  where  Night 
Makes  one  slow  move  from  black  to  white 

Thro'  all  the  tedious  year, — 
Or  smitten  by  some  fond  frost  fair, 
That  comb'd  out  crystals  from  her  hair, 

Wooing  a  seal-skin  Dear ! 

xrv. 

So  much  a  long  communion  tends, 
As  Byron  says,  to  make  us  friends 

With  what  we  daily  view — 
God  knows  the  daintiest  taste  may  coma 
To  love  a  nose  that's  like  a  plum 

In  marble,  cold  and  blue  ! 

XV. 

To  dote  on  hair,  an  oily  fleece  ! 

As  tho'  it  hung  from  Helen  o'  Greece  8 

They  say  that  love  prevails 
E'en  in  the  veriest  polar  land — 
And  surely  she  may  steal  thy  hand 

That  used  to  steal  thy  nails  1 

XVI. 

But  ah !  ere  thou  art  fix'd  to  marry. 
And  take  a  polar  Mrs  Parry, 

Think  of  a  six  months'  gloom — 
Think  of  the  wintry  waste,  and  hers, 
Each  furnish'd  with  a  dozeny«rj, 

Think  of  thine  icy  dome  I 

XVII. 

Think  of  the  children  born  to  bhcbbert 
Ah  me  !  hast  thou  an  India-rubber 

Inside  ! — to  hold  a  meal- 
For  months, — about  a  stone  and  half 
Of  whale,  and  part  of  a  sea-calf — 

A  fillet  of  salt  veal !— 


TO  CAPTAIN  PARRY. 

XVIII. 

Some  walrus  ham — no  trifle,  but 
A  decent  steak — a  solid  cut 

Of  seal — no  wafer  slice  ! 
A  reindeer's  tongue — and  drink  beside! 
Gallons  of  sperm— not  rectified  I 

And  pails  of  water-ice  ! 

XIX. 

Oh,  canst  thou  fast  and  then  feast  thus? 
Still  come  away,  and  teach  to  us 

Those  blessed  alternations — 
To-day  to  run  our  dinners  fine, 
To  feed  on  air,  and  then  to  dine 

With  Civic  Corporations — 

XX. 

To  save  th*  Old  Bailey  daily  shilling, 
And  then  to  take  a  half  year's  filling 

In  P.  N.'s  pious  Row — 
When  ask'd  to  Hock  and  haunch  o'  ven'son. 
Thro'  something  we  have  worn  our  pens  on 

For  Longman  and  his  Co. 

XXI. 

Oh,  come,  and  tell  us  what  the  Pole  is— 
Whether  it  singular  and  sole  is. 

Or  straight,  or  crooked  bent,— 
If  very  thick  or  very  thin, — 
Made  of  what  wood — and  if  akin 

To  those  there  be  in  Kent  ? 

XXII. 

There's  Combe,  there's  Spurzheim,  and  there's  Gall, 

Have  talk'd  of  poles— yet,  after  all, 

What  has  the  public  learn  d  ? 
And  Hunt's  account  must  still  defer, — 
He  sought  the  poll  at  Westminster — 

And  is  not  yet  re  turn' d  I  * 

XXIII. 

Alvanley  asks  if  whist,  dear  soul, 

Is  play'd  in  snow-towns  near  the  Polc^ 

And  how  the  fur-man  deals  ? 
And  Eldon  doubts  if  it  be  true 
That  icy  Chancellors  really  do 

Exist  upon  the  seals  ? 


TO  CAPTAIN  PARRY.  tl 


XXIV. 


Barrow,  by  well-fed  office  grates, 
Talks  of  his  own  bechristen'd  Straits, 

And  longs  that  he  were  there  ; 
And  Croker,  in  his  cabriolet, 
Sighs  o'er  his  brown  horse,  at  his  Bay, 

And  pants  to  cross  the  tnerl 

XXV. 

Oh,  come  away,  and  set  us  right, 
And,  haply,  throw  a  northern  light 

On  questions  such  as  these  : — 
Whether,  when  this  drown'd  world  was  lost. 
The  surflux  waves  were  lock'd  in  frost, 

And  turn'd  to  Icy  Seas  ? 

XXVI. 

Is  Ursa  Major  white  or  black? 
Or  do  the  Polar  tribes  attack 

Their  neighbours — and  what  for? 
Whether  they  ever  play  at  cuiYs, 
And  then,  if  they  take  off  their  muflf 

In  pugilistic  war? 

XXVII. 

Tell  us,  is  Winter  champion  thet^ 
As  in  our  milder  fighting  air  ? 

Say,  what  are  Chilly  loans  ? 
What  cures  they  have  for  rheums  beside, 
And  if  their  hearts  get  ossified 

From  eating  bread  of  bones  ? 

XXVIII. 

Whether  they  are  such  dwarfs — the  quicker 

To  circulate  the  vital  liquor, — * 

And  then,  from  head  to  heel — 
How  short  the  Methodists  must  choose 
Their  dumpy  envoys  not  to  lose 

Their  toes  in  spite  of  zeal  ? 

XXIX. 

Whether  'twill  soften  or  sublime  it 
To  preach  of  Hell  in  such  a  climate— 

Whether  may  Wesley  hope 
To  win  their  souls — or  that  old  function 
Of  seals — with  the  extreme  of  unction- 
Bespeaks  them  for  the  Pope  ? 

*  Buffon- 


TO  MARIA  DARLINGTON. 

XXX. 

Whether  the  lamps  will  e'er  be  "learned* 
Where  six  months'  "midnight  oil"  is  burned, 

Or  Letters  must  defer 
With  people  that  have  never  conn'd 
An  A,  B,  C,  but  live  beyond 

The  Sound  of  Lancaster  I 

XXXI. 

Oh,  come  away  at  any  rate — 

Well  hast  thou  earn'd  a  downier  state 

With  all  thy  hardy  peers — 
Good  lack  !  thou  must  be  glad  to  smell  docl^ 
And  rub  thy  feet  with  opodeldock, 

After  such  frosty  years, 

XXXII. 

Mayhap,  some  gentle  dame  at  last, 
Smit  by  the  perils  thou  hast  pass'd, 

However  coy  before, 
Shall  bid  thee  now  set  up  thy  rest 
In  that  Brest  Harbour,  Woman's  breast, 

And  tempt  the  Fates  no  more  I 


ADDRESS  TO  MARIA  DARLINGTON,  ON  HER 
RETURN  TO  THE  STAGE* 

"  It  was  Maria  I 

And  better  fate  did  Maria  deserve  than  to  have  her  banns  forbid 

She  had,  since  that,  she  told  me,  strayed  as  far  as  Rome,  and  walked  round  St  Petert 

•nee— and  retum'd  back  " 

See  the  whole  story,  in  Sterne  and  the  Newspapert. 


Thou  art  come  back  again  to  the  stage. 

Quite  as  blooming  as  when  thou  didst  leave  it ; 
And  'tis  well  for  this  fortunate  age 

Tiiat  thou  didst  not,  by  going  off,  grieve  it  1 
It  is  pleasant  to  see  thee  again — 

Right  pleasant  to  see  thee,  by  Herein, 
Unmolested  by  pea-colour'd  Hayne  ! 

And  free  from  that  thou-and-thee  Berkeley  I 

II. 

Thy  sweet  foot,  my  Foote,  is  as  litjht 
(Not  my  Foote — I  speak  by  correction) 

•  Written  jointly  with  J.  H.  Reynolds. 


TO  MARIA  DARLINGTON.  i(} 

As  the  snow  on  some  mountain  at  night, 

Or  the  snow  that  has  long  on  thy  neck  shonet 

The  Pit  is  in  raptures  to  free  thee, 
The  Boxes  impatient  to  greet  thee, 

The  Galleries  quite  clamorous  to  see  thee, 
And  thy  scenic  relations  to  meet  thee  1 


III. 

Ah,  where  was  thy  sacred  retreat  ? 

Maria  !  ah,  where  hast  thou  been. 
With  thy  two  little  wandering  Feet, 

Far  away  from  all  peace  and  pea-green  ? 
Far  away  from  Fitzhardinge  the  bold, 

Far  away  from  himself  and  his  lot ! 
I  envy  the  place  thou  hast  stroll'd, 

If  a  stroller  thou  art — which  thou'rt  not  1 


IV. 

Sterne  met  thee,  poor  wandering  thing, 

Methinks,  at  the  close  of  the  day — 
When  thy  Billy  had  just  slipp'd  his  string. 

And  thy  little  dog  quite  gone  astray — 
He  bade  thee  to  sorrow  no  more — 

He  wish'd  thee  to  lull  thy  distress 
In  his  bosom — he  couldn't  do  more. 

And  a  Christian  could  hardly  do  less  I 

V. 

Ah  me !  for  thy  small  plaintive  pipe 

Tfear  we  must  look  at  thine  eye — 
That  eye — forced  so  often  to  wipe 

That  the  handkerchief  never  got  dry  I 
Oh,  sure  'tis  a  barbarous  deed 

To  give  pain  to  the  feminine  mind — 
But  the  wooer  that  left  thee  to  bleed 

Was  a  creature  more  killing  than  kind  t 


VI. 

The  man  that  could  tread  on  a  worm 

Is  a  brute — and  inhuman  to  boot  ; 
But  he  merits  a  much  harsher  term 

That  can  wantonly  tread  on  a  Foote  ! 
Soft  mercy  and  gentleness  blend 

To  make  up  a  Quaker — but  he 
That  spurn'd  thee  could  scarce  be  a  Friend^ 

Tho'  he  dealt  in  that  Thou-ing  of  thee  ! 


TO  W.  KITCHENER,  M.D. 


VII. 

They  that  loved  thee,  Maria,  have  flown  I 

The  friends  of  the  midsummer  hour  I 
But  those  friends  now  in  anguish  atone, 

And  mourn  o'er  thy  desolate  bower. 
Friend  Hayne,  the  Green  Man,  is  quite  out. 

Yea,  utterly  out  of  his  bias  ; 
And  the  faithful  Fitzhardinge,  no  doubt, 

Is  counting  his  Ave  Marias  1 

VIII. 

Ah,  where  wast  thou  driven  away, 

To  feast  on  thy  desolate  woe  ? 
We  have  witness'd  thy  weeping  in  play. 

But  none  saw  the  earnest  tears  flow — 
Perchance  thou  wert  truly  forlorn, — 

Tho'  none  but  the  fairies  could  mark 
Where  they  hung  upon  some  Berkeley  thorn. 

Or  the  thistles  in  Burderop  Park  ! 

IX. 

Ah,  perhaps,  when  old  age's  white  snow 

Has  silver'd  the  crown  of  Hayne's  nob — 
For  even  the  greenest  will  grow 

As  hoary  as  "  White-headed  Bob  "— 
He'll  wish,  in  the  days  of  his  prime. 

He  had  been  rather  kinder  to  one 
He  hath  left  to  the  malice  of  Time^ 

A  woman — so  weak  and  undone  1 


ODE  TO  W.  KITCHENER,  M.D. 

iUTHOR  OF  THE  COOK's  ORACLE  ;  OBSERVATIONS  ON  VOCAL  MUSIC  ;  THH 
ART  OF  INVIGORATING  AND  PROLONGING  LIFE  ;  PRACTICAL  OBSERVA- 
TIONS  ON  TELESCOPES,  OPERA  GLASSES,  AND  SPECTACLES  ;  THE  HOUSE- 
KEEPER'S  LEDGER  ;  AND  THE   PLEASURE   OF   MAKING  A  WIUU 

"I  rule  the  roast,  as  Milton  says  I" — Caleb  Quotem. 


Hail  !  multifarious  man  1 
Thou  Wondrous,  Admirable  Kitchen  CrichtonI 

Born  to  enlighten 
The  laws  of  Optics,  Peptics,  Music,  Cooking- 
Master  of  the  Piano — and  the  Pan — 
As  busy  with  the  kitchen  as  the  skies  ! 


TO  JV.  KITCHENER,  M.D.  Sj 

Now  looking 
At  some  rich  stew  thro'  Galileo's  eyes, — 
Or  boiling  eggs — timed  to  a  metronome— 

As  much  at  home 
In  spectacles  as  in  mere  isinglass— 
In  the  art  of  frying  brown — as  a  digression 
On  music  and  poetical  expression, — 
Whereas,  how  few  of  all  our  cooks,  alas  ! 
Could  tell  Calliope  from  "  Calliopee  !" 

How  few  there  be 
Could  leave  the  lowest  for  the  highest  stories 

(Observatories), 
And  turn,  like  thee,  Diana's  calculator, 
However  cooJ^s  synonymous  with  Kaierl^ 

Alas  !  still  let  me  say, 

How  few  could  lay 
The  carving-knife  beside  the  tuning-fork, 
Like  the  proverbial  Jack  ready  for  any  work  I 

n. 

Oh,  to  behold  thy  features  in  thy  book ! 
Thy  proper  head  and  shoulders  in  a  plate, 

How  it  would  look  ! 
With  one  raised  eye  watching  the  dial's  date, 
And  one  upon  the  roast,  gently  cast  down — 

Thy  chops — done  nicely  brown — 
The  garnish'd  brow — with  "a  few  leaves  of  bay" — 

The  hair— "done  Wiggy's  way  1" 
And  still  one  studious  finger  near  thy  brains, 

As  if  thou  wert  just  come 

From  editing  some 
New  soup^-or  hashing  Dibdin's  cold  remains ! 
Or,  Orpheus-like,— fresh  from  thy  dying  strains 
Of  music, —  Epping  luxuries  of  sound, 

As  Milton  says,  "  in  many  a  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out," 
Whilst  all  thy  tame  stutf'd  leopards  listen'd  round  t 

III. 

Oh,  rather  thy  whole  proper  length  reveal, 
Standing  like  Fortune, — on  the  jack— thy  wheel- 
(Thou  art,  like  Fortune,  full  of  chops  and  changes. 
Thou  hast  a  fillet  too  before  thine  eye  !) 
Scanning  our  kitchen,  and  our  vocal  ranges. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  same  to  sing  or  fry — 
Nay,  so  it  is — hear  how  Miss  Paton's  throat 
Makes  "  fritters  "  of  a  note  ! 

*  Captain  Kater,  the  Moon's  Surveyor. 


S6  TO  IV.  KITCHENER,  M.D. 

And  is  not  reading  near  akin  to  feeding, 
Or  why  should  Oxford  Sausages  be  fit 

Receptacles  for  wit  ? 
Or  why  should  Cambridge  put  its  little,  smart. 
Minced  brains  into  a  Tart  ? 
Nay,  then,  thou  wert  but  wise  to  frame  receipti» 

Book-treats, 
Equally  to  instruct  the  Cook  and  cram  her — 
Receipts  to  be  devour'd,  as  well  as  read, 
■    The  Culinary  Art  in  gingerbread — 
The  Kitchen's  Eaten  Grammar  I 


IV. 

Oh,  very  pleasant  is  thy  motley  page- 
Ay,  very  pleasant  in  its  chatty  vein — 
So — in  a  kitchen — would  have  talk'd  Montaigne, 

That  merry  Gascon,  humourist,  and  sage  ! 

Let  slender  minds  with  single  themes  engage, 
Like  Mr  Bowles  with  his  eternal  Pope, — 

Or  Lovelass  upon  Wills, — Thou  goest  on 

Plaiting  ten  topics,  like  Tate  Wilkinson ! 
Thy  brain  is  like  a  rich  Kaleidoscope, 

Stutf  d  with  a  brilliant  medley  of  odd  bits, 
And  ever  shifting  on  from  change  to  change. 

Saucepans — old  Songs— Pills— Spectacles— and  Spits  I 
Thy  range  is  wider  than  a  Rurnford  range  I 

Thy  grasp  a  miracle  ! — till  I  recall 

Th'  indubitable  cause  of  thy  variety — 

Thou  art,  of  course,  th'  Epitome  of  all 

Th  \t  spying — frying— singing — mix'd  Society 

Of  Scientific  Friends,  who  used  to  meet 

Welsh  Rabbits — and  thyself— in  Warren  Street  I 


Oh,  hast  thou  still  those  Conversazioni, 
Where  learned  visitors  discoursed— and  fed? 

There  came  Belzoni, 
Fresh  from  the  ashes  of  Egyptian  dead — 

And  gentle  Poki — and  that  Royal  Pair, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  declare — 
"Thanks  to  the  greatest  Cooke  we  ever  read — 
They  were — what  Sandwiches  should  be — \\2Xibred\* 
There  famed  M'Adam  from  his  manual  toil 
Relax'd — and  freely  own'd  he  took  thy  hints 

On  "making  Broth  with  Flints" — 
There  Parry  came,  and  show'd  thee  polar  oil 
For  melted  butter — Combe  with  his  medullary 
Notions  about  the  Skullery, 


TO  W.  ICITCHENER,  M.D. 

And  Mr  Poole,  too  partial  to  a  broil — 
There  witty  Rogers  came,  that  punning  elf! 
Who  used  to  swear  thy  book 
Would  really  look 
A  Delphic  "  Oracle,"  if  laid  on  Delf— 
There,  once  a  month,  came  Campbell,  and  discuss'd 
His  own — and  thy  own — '■'■Magazine  of  Taste" — 

There  Wilberforce  the  Just 
Came,  in  his  old  black  suit,  till  once  he  traced 
Thy  sly  advice  to  Poachers  of  Black  Folks, 
That  "  do  not  break  their /^/i-j," — 
Which  huff'd  him  home,  in  grave  disgust  and  haste  t 


There  came  John  Clare,  the  poet,  nor  forbore 
Thy  Patties — thou  wert  hand-and-glove  with  Moore, 
Who  call'd  thee  '■'■  Kitchen  Addison" — for  why? 
Thou  givest  rules  for  Health  and  Peptic  Pills, 
Forms  for  made  dishes,  and  receipts  for  Wills, 
"  Teaching  us  how  to  live  and  how  to  die ! " 
There  came  thy  Cousin-Cook,  good  Mrs  Fry — 
There  Trench,  the  Thames  Projector,  first  brought  on 

His  sine  Quay  non, — 
There  Martin  would  drop  in  on  Monday  eves. 
Or  Fridays,  from  the  pens,  and  raise  his  breath 

'Gainst  cattle  days  and  death, — 
Answer'd  by  Mellish,  feeder  of  fat  beeves, 

Who  swore  that  Frenchmen  never  could  be  eager 
For  fighting  on  soup-meagre — 
"And  yet  (as  thou  would'st  add),  the  French  have  seen 
A  Marshal  Tureen  I " 


VII. 

Great  was  thy  Evening  Cluster  ! — often  graced 

With  DoUond— Burgess— and  Sir  Humphry  Davy  1 

'Twas  there  M'Dermot  first  inclined  to  Taste, — 

There  Colburn  learn'd  the  art  of  making  paste 

For  puffs — and  Accum  analysed  a  gravy. 

Colman — the  Cutter  of  Coleman  Street,  'tis  said. 

Came  there, — and  Parkins  with  his  Ex-wise-head 

(His  claim  to  letters) — Kater,  too,  the  Moon's 

Crony, — and  Graham,  lofty  on  balloons, — 

There  Croly  stalk'd  with  holy  humour  heated 

(Who  wrote  a  light-horse  play,  which  Yates  completed)- 

And  Lady  Morgan,  that  grinding  organ, 
And  Brasbridge  telling  anecdotes  of  spoons, — 
Madame  Valbreque  thrice  honour'd  thee,  and  came 


TO  W.  KITCHENER,  M.D. 

With  great  Rossini,  his  own  bow  and  fiddle,— 
And  even  Irving  spared  a  night  from  fame, 
And  talk'd — till  thou  didst  stop  him  in  the  middle, 
To  serve  round  Tewah-diddU  I  * 


VIII, 

Then  all  the  guests  rose  up,  and  sigh'd  good-bye  I 
So  let  them  : — thou  thyself  art  still  a  Hosi  I 

Dibdin — Cornaro — Newton — Mrs  Fry  ! 

Mrs  Glasse,  Mr  Spec  ! — Lovelass — and  Weber, 

Matthews  in  Quotem — Moore's  fire-worshipping  Gheber- 
Thrice-worthy  worthy  !  seem  by  thee  engross'd  ! 
Howbeit  the  Peptic  Cook  still  rules  the  roast. 
Potent  to  hush  all  ventriloquial  snarling, — 
And  ease  the  bosom  pangs  of  indigestion  I 

Thou  art,  sans  question, 
The  Corporation's  love — its  Doctor  Darlingl 
Look  at  the  Civic  Palate — nay,  the  Bed 

Which  set  dear  Mrs  Opie  on  supplyinr 
*'  Illustrations  of  Lying  I" 
Ninety  square  feet  of  down  from  heel  to  head 

It  measured,  and  I  dread 
Was  haunted  by  a  terrible  night  Mare, 
A  monstrous  burthen  on  the  corporation  I— 
Look  at  the  Bill  of  Fare,  for  one  day's  shar^ 
Sea-turtles  by  the  score — Oxen  by  droves, 
Geese,  turkeys,  by  the  flock — fishes  and  loaves 

Countless,  as  when  the  Lilliputian  nation 
Was  making  up  the  huge  man-mountain's  ration  I 


IX.  ^ 

O  worthy  Doctor  !  surely  thou  hast  driven 

The  squatting  Demon  from  great  Garratt's  breast- 

(His  honour  seems  to  rest ! — ) 
And  what  is  thy  reward  ? — Hath  London  given 
Thee  public  thanks  for  thy  important  service? 

Alas !  not  even 
The  tokens  it  bestow'd  on  Howe  and  Jervis  I— 
Yet  could  I  speak  as  Orators  should  speak 
Before  the  worshipful  the  Common  Council 
(Utter  my  bold  bad  grammar  and  pronounce  ill), 
Thou  should'st  not  miss  thy  Freedom,  for  a  week, 
Richly  engross'd  on  vellum  : — Reason  urges 
That  he  who  rules  our  cookery — that  he 
Who  edits  soups  and  gravies,  ought  to  be 
A  Citizen,  where  sauce  can  make  a  Burgess  t 

•  The  Doctor's  composition  for  a  nightcap. 


89 


ODE  TO  H.  BODKIN.  ESQ., 

IBCIIETARY  TO  THE  SOCIETY   FOR  THE   SUPPRESSION   OF   MENDICITY.* 

"  This  is  your  charge— you  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men." 

'  —Muck  Ado  About  Nothing, 


Hail,  King  of  Shreds  and  Patches,  hail, 

Disperser  of  the  Poor  ! 
Thou  Dog  in  office,  set  to  bark 

All  beggars  from  the  door  1 

II. 

Great  overseer  of  overseers, 

And  Dealer  in  old  rags  1 
Thy  public  duty  never  fails, 

Thy  ardour  never  flags  1 

III. 

Oh,  when  I  take  my  walks  abroad, 

How  many  Poor  I  miss  ! 
Had  Doctor  Watts  walk'd  now-a-days 

He  would  have  written  this  1 

IV. 

So  well  thy  Vagrant  catchers  prow^ 

So  clear  thy  caution  keeps 
The  path— O  Bodkin  !  sure  thou  bast 

The  eye  that  never  sleeps  1 


No  Belisarius  pleads  for  alms, 
No  Benbow,  lacking  legs  ; 

The  pious  man  in  black  is  now 
The  only  man  that  begs  I 

VI. 

Street-Handels  are  disorganized, 

Disbanded  every  band  ! — 
The  silent  scraper  at  the  door 
Is  scarce  allow'd  to  stand  ! 
•  Written  jointly  with  J.  H.  Reynold* 


TO  H.  BODKIN,  ESQ. 


VII. 


The  Sweeper  brushes  with  his  broom. 
The  Carstairs  with  his  chalk 

Retires,— the  Cripple  leaves  his  stand. 
But  cannot  sell  his  walk. 

VIII. 

The  old  Wall-blind  resigns  the  wall, 
The  Camels  hide  their  humps, 

The  Witherington  without  a  leg 
Mayn't  beg  upon  his  stumps  I 

IX. 

Poor  Jack  is  gone,  thnt  used  to  doff 

His  batter 'd  tatter'd  hat, 
And  show  his  dangling  sleeve,  ala»  I 

There  seem'd  no  arm  in  that  1 

X. 

Oh  !  was  it  such  a  sin  to  air 

His  true  blue  naval  rags, 
Glory's  own  trophy,  like  St  Paul's, 

Hung  round  with  holy  flags  ? 

XI. 

Thou  knowest  best.     I  meditate, 

My  Bodkin — no  offence  ! 
Let  us,  henceforth,  but  nurse  our  pounds, 

Thou  dost  protect  our  pence  1 

XII. 

Well  art  thou  pointed  'gainst  the  Poor, 

For,  when  the  Beggar  Crew 
Bring  their  petitions,  thou  art  paid, 

Of  course,  to  "  run  them  through.* 

XIII. 

Of  course  thou  art  what  Hamlet  meant— 

To  wretches  the  last  friend  ; 
What  ills  can  mortals  have  they  can't 

With  a  bare  Bodkin  end  ? 


WHIMS   AND   ODDITIES. 

(FIRST   SERIES,    1826.' 

•*  O  Cicero  !   Cicero  1  if  to  pun  be  a  crime,  'tis  a  crime  I  have  learned  of  thee.     O  Bias! 
Bias  1  if  to  pun  be  a  crime,  by  thy  example  I  was  biassed  ! " — ScRlBLERUb 


DEDICATION   TO   THE   REVIEWER^ 

What  is  a  modern  Poet's  fate? 
To  write  his  thoughts  upon  a  slate  ;— 
The  Critic  spits  on  what  is  done,— 
Gives  it  a  wipe, — and  all  is  gone. 


Very  deaf,  indeed.  . 

MORAL  REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  CROSS  OF 

ST  FA  uns.  * 


The  man  that  pays  his  pence,  and  goes 
Up  to  thy  lofty  cross,  St  Paul, 
Looks  over  London's  naked  nose, 

•London  Magazine,  1822,  vol.  v.  p.  404, 


93 


THE  CROSS  OF  ST  PAUL'S, 

Women  and  men  : 
The  world  is  all  beneath  his  ken  •^ 
He  sits  above  the  Ball. 
He  seems  on  Mount  Olympus'  top, 
Among  the  Gods,  by  Jupiter  !  and  lets  drop 
His  eyes  from  the  empyreal  clouds 
On  mortal  crowds. 

IL 

Seen  from  these  skies, 
How  small  those  emmets  in  our  eyes ! 
Some  carry  little  sticlcs — and  one 
His  eggs — to  warm  them  in  the  sun  : 

Dear  !  what  a  hustle, 

And  bustle  ! 
And  there's  my  aunt.     I  know  her  by  her  nrais^ 

So  long  and  thin, 

And  so  pinch'd  in, 
Just  in  the  pismire  taste. 

in. 

Oh  !  what  are  men  ? — Beings  so  small. 

That,  should  I  fall 
Upon  their  little  heads,  I  must 
Crush  them  by  hundreds  into  dust ! 

IV. 

And  what  is  life  and  all  its  ages  ? 

There's  seven  stages  ! — 
Turnham  Green  !  Chelsea  !  Putney  !  Fulhaml 
Brentford  !  and  Kew  ! 
And  Tooting,  too  ! 
And  oh  !  what  very  little  nags  to  pull  'em. 
Yet  each  would  seem  a  horse  indeed. 

If  here  at  Paul's  tip-top  we'd  got  'em; 
Although,  like  Cinderella's  breed, 

They're  mice  at  bottom. 
Then  let  me  not  despise  a  horse. 
Though  he  looks  small  from  Paul's  high  cross! 
Since  he  would  be, — as  near  the  sky, 
— Fourteen  hands  high. 

V, 

What  is  this  world  with  London  in  its  lap? 

Mogg's  Map. 
The  Thames  that  ebbs  and  flows  in  its  broad  channel  ? 

A  tidy  kenneL 


THE  PRA  YSE  OF  IGNORANCE.  93 

The  bridges  stretching  from  its  banks  ? 

Stone  planks. 
Oh  me  !  hence  could  I  read  an  admonition 

To  mad  Ambition  ! 
But  that  he  would  not  listen  to  my  call, 
Though  I  should  stand  upon  the  cross,  and  ball  t 


THE  PR  A  YSE  OF  IGNORANCE  : 

IN  EXTRACT  FROM  AN  ORATION  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE  MOST  GRAVE  AND 
LEARNED  FACULTY  OF  PADUA,  BY  THE  ADMIRABLE  CRICHTON. 

NOW  your  Clowne  knoweth  none  of  the  Booke-man's  troubles, 
and  his  dayes  be  the  longer ;  for  he  doth  not  vault  upon  the 
nerie  Pegasus,  but  jumpes  merrilye  upon  old  Ball,  who  is  a  cart-horse, 
and  singeth  another  man's  song,  which  hath,  it  may  be,  thirty  and  six 
verses,  and  a  burthen  withal,  and  goes  to  a  tune  which  no  man  knowes 
but  himself.  Alsoe,  he  wooes  the  ruddye  Cicely,  which  is  not  a  Muse, 
but  as  comely  a  maide  of  fleshe  as  needes  be,  and  many  daintye 
ballades  are  made  of  their  loves,  as  may  be  read  in  our  Poets  their 
Pastoralls  ;  only  that  therein  he  is  called  Damon,  which  standes  for 
Roger,  and  Cicely,  belike,  is  ycleped  Sylvia,  as  belongs  to  their  pas- 
torall  abodes.  Where  they  lead  soe  happye  life  as  to  stir  up  envye  in 
the  towne's  women,  who  would  faine  become  Shepherdesses  by  hook 
and  by  crook,  and  get  green  gownes  and  lay  down  upon  the  sweet  ver- 
dant grass.  Oh,  how  pleasauntly  they  sit  all  the  daye  long  under  a 
shady  tree,  to  hear  the  young  lambes  ;  but  at  night  they  listen  to  the 
plaintive  Philomell,  and  the  gallaunts  doe  make  them  chappelets  ;  or, 
if  it  chance  to  be  May,  they  goe  a  Mayinge,  whilst  the  yonge  buds 
smell  sweetlye,  and  the  littei  birdes  are  whistlynge  and  hoppinge  all 
about. 

Then  Roger  and  Cicely  sit  adowne  under  the  white  haw-thorne,  and 
he  makes  love  to  her  in  a  shepherd-like  waye,  in  the  midst  of  her.flocke. 
She  doth  not  minde  sheepe's-eyes.  Even  like  Cupid  and  Psyche,  as 
they  are  set  forthe  by  a  cunning  Flemishe  Limner,  as  hath  been  my 
hap  to  behold  in  the  Low  Countrye,  wherein  Cupid,  with  his  one  hand, 
is  a  toyinge  with  the  haires  of  his  head  ;  but,  with  the  other,  he  hand- 
leth  the  fair  neck  of  his  mistresse,  who  sitteth  discreetlye  upon  a 
flowerie  bank,  and  lookes  down  as  beseemes  upon  her  shoon  ;  for  she 
is  vain  of  her  modestye.     This  I  have  seen  at  the  Hague. 

And  Roger  sayth,  O  Cicely,  Cicely,  how  prettye  you  be  ;  whereat 
she  doth  open  her  mouth,  and  smiles  loudly  ;  which,  when  he  heares. 
he  sayth  again.  Nay,  but  I  doe  love  thee  passing  well,  and  with  that 
lays  a  loud  buss  upon  her  cheek,  which  cannot  blushe  by  reason  of  its 
perfect  ruddynesse.  Anon,  he  spreadeth  in  her  lap  the  pink  ribbands 
which  he  bought  at  the  wake,  for  her  busking,  and  alsoe  a  great  cake 
of  ginger  brede,  which  causeth  her  heart  to  be  in  her  mouthe.  Then, 
quoth  he,  The  little  Robins  have  got  their  mates,  and  the  prettye 
Finches  be  all  paired,  and  why  sholde  not  we  ?    And,  quoth  she,  as 


94  THE  PR  A  YSE  OF  IGNORANCE. 

he  kisseth  her,  O  Robin,  Robin,  you  be  such  a  sweet-bi/led  bird,  thai 
I  must  needes  crye  "  Aye."  Wherefore,  on  the  Sundaye,  they  go  to 
the  Parishe  Churche,  that  they  may  be  joyned  into  one,  and  be  no 
more  single.  Whither  they  walk  tenderlye  upon  their  toes,  as  if  they 
stepped  all  the  waye  upon  egges.  And  Roger  hath  a  brave  bowpot  at 
his  bosom,  which  is  full  of  Heart's  Ease  ;  but  Cicely  is  decked  with 
ribbands,  a  knot  here,  and  a  knot  there,  and  her  head  is  furnished 
after  a  daintye  fashion,  soe  that  she  wishes,  belike,  that  she  was  Roger, 
to  see  herselfe  all  round  about,— and  content  her  eyes  upon  her  own 
devices.  Whereas,  Roger  smells  to  his  nosegaye;  but  his  looks  travel, 
as  the  crabbe  goeth,  which  is  side-wayes,  towards  Cicely  ;  and  he 
smiles  sweetlye,  to  think  how  that  he  is  going  to  be  made  a  husband- 
man, and  alsoe  of  the  good  cheere  which  there  will  be  to  eat  that  daye. 
Soe  he  walks  up  to  the  altar  with  a  stout  harte ;  and  when  the  parson 
hath  made  an  ende,  he  kisseth  Cicely  afreshe,  and  their  markes  are 
registered  as  man  and  wife  in  the  church  bokes. 

After  which,  some  threescore  yeares,  it  may  befall  you  to  light  on  a 
grave-stone,  and,  on  the  wood  thereof,  to  read  as  foUoweth  : — 

"  Here  I  bee,  Roger  Rackstrawe,  which  did  live  at  Dipmore  Ende, 
of  this  Parishe — but  now  in  this  tomb. 

"Time  was  that  I  did  sowe  and  plough, 
That  lyes  beneathe  the  furrowes  now  ; 
But  though  Death  sowes  me  with  his  graino^ 
I  knowe  that  I  shall  spring  againe." 

Now  is  not  this  a  life  to  be  envyde,  which  needeth  so  many  men*t 
paynes  to  paint  its  pleasures  ?  For,  saving  the  Law  clerkes,  it  is  set 
forth  by  all  that  write  upon  sheepe's  skins,  even  the  makers  of  pastor- 
alls  :  wherein  your  Clowne  is  constantly  a  figure  of  Poetry, — being 
allwayes  amongst  the  leaves.  He  is  their  Jack-i'-the-Green. — Where- 
fore I  crye,  for  my  owne  part,  Oh  !  that  I  were  a  Boore  !  Oh  !  that  I 
were  a  Boore  !  that  troubleth  no  man,  and  is  troubled  of  none.  Who 
5S  written,  wherein  he  cannot  read,  and  is  mayde  into  Poetry,  that  yet 
is  no  Poet  ;  for  how  sholde  he  make  songs,  that  knoweth  not  King 
Cadmus  his  alphabet,  to  pricke  them  down  withal? — 

Seeing  that  he  is  nowayes  learnede — nor  hath  never  bitten  of  the 
Apple  of  Knowledge,  which  was  but  a  sowre  crabbe  apple,  whereby 
Adam  his  wisdom-teeth  were  set  on  edge.  Wherefore,  he  is  much  more 
a  happye  man,  saying  unto  his  lusty  yonge  Dame,  We  twaine  be  one 
fleshe. — But  the  Poet  sayth  to  his  mate,  Thou  art  skin  of  my  skin,  and 
bone  of  my  bone  ;  soe  that  this  saying  is  not  a  paradoxe, — That  the 
Boke  Man  is  a  Dunce  in  being  Wise, — and  the  Clowne  is  wise  ia 
being  a  Duucet 


^|{.,i!i/.,','i*'^nnr<j^ 


95 


Miss  Tree. 


A  VALENTINE. 


Oh  !  cruel  heart  !  ere  these  posthumous  papers 
Have  met  thine  eyes,  I  shall  be  out  of  breath  % 

Those  cruel  eyes,  like  two  funereal  tapers, 
Have  only  lighted  me  the  way  to  death. 

Perchance,  thou  wilt  extinguish  them  in  vapours, 
When  I  am  gone,  and  green  grass  covereth 

Thy  lover,  lost  ;  but  it  will  be  in  vain — 

It  will  not  bring  the  vital  spark  again. 

II. 

Ah  !  when  those  eyes,  like  tapers,  burn'd  so  blue, 
It  seem'd  an  omen  that  we  must  expect 

The  sprites  of  lovers  :  and  it  boded  true, 
For  I  am  half  a  sprite — a  ghost  elect ; 

Wherefore  I  write  to  thee  this  last  adieu, 
With  my  last  pen — before  that  I  effect 

My  exit  from  the  stage  ;  just  stopp'd  before 

The  tombstone  steps  that  lead  us  to  Death's  door. 


A   VALENTINE. 


III. 


Full  soon  these  living  eyes,  now  liquid  bright, 
Will  turn  dend  dull,  and  wear  no  radiance,  save 

They  shed  a  dreary  and  inhuman  light, 

Illumed  within  by  glow-worms  of  the  grave  • 

These  ruddy  cheeks,  so  pleasant  to  the  sigh% 
These  lusty  legs,  and  all  the  limbs  I  have. 

Will  keep  Death's  carnival,  and,  foul  or  fresh, 

Must  bid  farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  flesh  I 

IV. 

Yea,  and  this  very  heart,  that  dies  for  thee, 
As  broken  victuals  to  the  worms  will  go ; 

And  all  the  world  will  dine  again  but  me — 
For  I  shall  have  no  stomach  ; — and  I  know. 

When  I  am  ghostly,  thou  wilt  sprightly  be 
As  now  thou  art  :  but  will  not  tears  of  woe 

Water  thy  spirits,  with  remorse  adjunct. 

When  thou  dost  pause,  and  think  of  the  defunct  ? 

V. 

And  when  thy  soul  is  buried  in  a  sleep, 
In  midnight  solitude,  and  little  dreaming 

Of  such  a  spectre — what,  if  I  should  creep 
Within  thy  presence  in  such  dismal  seeming? 

Thine  eyes  will  stare  themselves  awake,  and  weep, 
And  thou  wilt  cross  thyself  with  treble  screaming 

And  pray,  with  mingled  penitence  and  dread, 

That  I  were  less  alive — or  not  so  dead. 

VI. 

Then  will  thy  heart  confess  thee,  and  reprove 
This  wilful  homicide  which  thou  hast  done : 

And  the  sad  epitaph  of  so  much  love 
Will  eat  into  thy  heart,  as  if  in  stone : 

And  all  the  lovers  that  around  thee  move 

Will  read  my  fate,  and  tremble  for  their  own; 

And  strike  upon  their  he.irtless  breasts,  and  sigh, 

"  Man,  born  of  woman,  must  of  woman  die  !" 

VII. 

Mine  eyes  grow  dropsical — I  can  no  more  ; 

And  what  is  written  thou  may'st  scorn  to  read. 
Shutting  thy  tearless  eyes. — 'Tis  done — 'tis  o'er— 

My  hand  is  destined  for  another  deed. 
But  one  last  word,  wrung  from  its  aching  core, 

And  my  lone  heart  in  silentness  will  bleed  ; 
Alas  !  it  ought  to  take  a  life  to  tell 
That  one  last  word — that  fare — fare — fare  thee  well  I 


97 


LOVE. 

O  Love  !  what  art  thou,  Love  ? — the  ace  of  hearts, 
Trumping  earth's  kings  and  queens,  and  all  its  suits  | 

A  player,  masquerading  many  parts 

In  life's  odd  carnival  ; — a  boy  that  shoots, 

From  ladies'  eyes,  such  mortal  woundy  darts  ; 
A  gardener,  pulling  heart's-ease  up  by  the  roots  ; 

The  Puck  of  Passion — partly  false — part  real— 

A  marriageable  maiden's  "  beau  ideal." 


O  Love  !  what  art  thou,  Love  ? — a  wicked  thing, 
Making  green  misses  spoil  their  work  at  school; 

A  melancholy  man,  cross-gartering  ? 

Grave,  ripe-faced  wisdom  made  an  April  fool  ? 

A  youngster  tilting  at  a  wedding-ring? 
A  sinner,  sitting  on  a  cuttie  stool  ? 

A  Ferdinand  de  Something  in  a  hovel. 

Helping  Matilda  Rose  to  make  a  novel  ? 

0  Love  !  what  art  thou.  Love  ? — one  that  is  bad 
With  palpitations  of  the  heart — like  mine— 

A  poor  bewilder'd  maid,  making  so  sad 
A  necklace  of  her  garters — fell  design  I 

A  poet,  gone  unreasonably  mad, 

Ending  his  sonnets  with  a  hempen  line  ? 

O  Love  ! — but  whither  now  ?  forgive  me,  pray  } 

I'm  not  the  first  that  Love  hath  led  astray. 


*•  Kich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore." 


** PLEASE  TO  RING  THE  BELLED* 


I'll  tell  you  a  story  that's  not  in  Tom  Moore  : — 
Young  Love  likes  to  knock  at  a  pretty  girl's  door  ; 
So  he  call'd  upon  Lucy — 'twas  just  ten  o'clock — 
Like  a  spruce  single  man,  with  a  smart  double  knock. 

n. 

Now,  a  handmaid,  whatever  her  fingers  be  at, 
Will  run  like  a  puss  when  she  hears  a  ra/-tat  : 
So  Lucy  ran  up — and  in  two  seconds  more 
Had  question'd  the  stranger,  and  answer'd  the  door. 


in. 


The  meeting  was  bHss  :  but  the  parting  was  woe  ; 
For  the  moment  will  come  when  such  comers  must  go  ; 
So  she  kiss'd  him,  and  whisper'd — pfcor  innocent  thing — 
**  The  next  time  you  come,  love,  pray  come  with  a  ring." 

*  London  Magazine,  January  1822. 


99 


'  The  Cook's  Oracle." 


A  RECIPE— FOR  CIVILISATION. 


The  following  Poem— is  from  the  Pen  of  DOCTOR  KITCHENER  !— the 
most  heterogeneous  of  Authors,  but  at  the  same  time — in  the  Sporting 
Latin  of  Mr  Egan, — a  real  Yiovao-genms,  or  a  Genius  of  a  Man  !  In 
the  Poem,  his  CULINARY  ENTHUSIASM,  as  usual,  boils  over  I  and 
makes  it  seem  written,  as  he  describes  himself  (see  The  Cook's  Oracle) — 
with  the  Spit  in  one  hand  ! — and  the  Frying-Pan  in  the  other, — while  in 

the  style  of  the  rhymes  it  is  Hudibrastic, as  if  in  the  ingredients  of 

Versification,  he  had  been  assisted  by  his  BUTLER  ! 

As  a  Head  Cook,  Optician — Physician,  Music  Master — Domestic  Economist 
and  Death-bed  Attorney  ! — I  have  celebrated  The  Author  elsewhere  with 

approbation  : — And  cannot  now  place  him  upon  the  Table  as  a  Poet, 

without  still  being  his  LAUDER,  a  phrase  which  those  persons  whose 
course  of  classical  reading  recalls  the  INFAMOUS  FORGERY  on  Tht 
Immortal  Bard  of  Avon  1 — will  find  easy  to  understand. 

Surely,  those  sages  err  who  teach 

That  man  is  known  from  brutes  by  speech. 

Which  hardly  severs  man  from  woman, 

But  not  th'  inhuman  from  the  human, — 

Or  else  might  parrots  claim  affinity. 

And  dogs  be  doctors  by  latinity, — 

Not  t'  insist  (as  might  be  shown), 

That  beasts  have  gibberish  of  their  own, 


100  A  RECIPE— FOR  CIVILISATION- 

Which  once  was  no  dead  tongue,  though  we 

Since  ^Esop's  days  have  lost  the  key  ; 

Nor  yet  to  hint  dumb  men, — and,  still,  not 

Beasts  that  could  gossip  though  they  will  not, 

But  play  at  dummy  like  the  monkeys, 

For  fear  mankind  should  make  them  flunkeys. 

Neither  can  man  be  known  by  feature 

Or  form,  because  so  like  a  creature, 

That  some  grave  men  could  never  shape 

Which  is  the  aped  and  which  the  ape  ; 

Nor  by  his  gait,  nor  by  his  height, 

Nor  yet  because  he's  black  or  white, 

But  ratiojial, — for  so  we  call 

The  only  CoOKiNG  Animal  ! 

The  only  one  who  brings  his  bit 

Of  dinner  to  the  pot  or  spit, 

For  where's  the  lion  e'er  was  hasty 

To  put  his  venison  in  a  pasty? 

Ergo,  by  logic,  we  repute, 

That  he  who  cooks  is  not  a  brute,— 

But  Equus  brutum  est,  which  means, 

If  a  horse  had  sense  he'd  boil  his  beans  { 

Nay,  no  one  but  a  horse  would  forage 

On  naked  oats  instead  of  porridge, 

Which  proves,  if  brutes  and  Scotchmen  vary. 

The  difference  is  culinary. 

Further,  as  man  is  known  by  feeding 

From  brutes, — so  men  from  men,  in  breeding. 

Are  still  distinguish'd  as  they  eat. 

And  raw  in  manner's  raw  in  meat,— 

Look  at  the  polish'd  nations,  hight 

The  civilized — the  most  polite 

Is  that  which  bears  the  praise  of  nations 

For  dressing  eggs  two  hundred  fashions  ; 

Whereas,  at  savage  feeders  look, — 

The  less  refined  the  less  they  cook  ; 

From  Tartar  grooms,  that  merely  straddle 

Across  a  steak  and  warm  their  saddle, 

Down  to  the  Abyssinian  squaw. 

That  bohs  her  chops  and  coUops  raw, 

And,  like  a  wild  beast,  cares  as  little 

To  dress  her  person  as  her  victual, — 

For  gowns,-  and  gloves,  and  caps,  and  tippets, 

Are  beauty's  sauces,  spice,  and  sippets, 

And  not  by  shamble  bodies  put  on, 

But  those  who  roast  and  boil  their  mutton  ; 

So  Eve  and  Adam  wore  no  dresses 

Because  they  lived  on  water-cresses, 

And  till  they  learn'd  to  cook  their  crudities. 

Went  blind  as  beetles  to  their  nudities. 

For  niceness  comes  from  th'  inner  side 

(As  an  ox  is  drest  before  his  hide). 


A  RECIPE— FOR  CIVILISATIOI^.  lOl 

And  when  the  entrail  loathes  vulgarity 

The  outward  man  will  soon  cull  rarity, 

For  'tis  th'  effect  of  what  we  eat 

To  make  a  man  look  like  his  meat, 

As  insects  show  their  food's  complexions  ; 

Thus  fopling's  clothes  are  like  confections 

But  who,  to  feed  a  jaunty  coxcomb. 

Would  have  an  Abyssinian  ox  come  ? — 

Or  serve  a  dish  of  fricassees, 

To  clodpoles  in  a  coat  of  frieze  ? 

Whereas  a  black  would  call  for  buffalo 

Alive — and,  no  doubt,  eat  the  offal  too. 

Now  (this  premised)  it  follows  then 

That  certain  culinary  men 

Should  first  go  forth  with  pans  and  spits 

To  bring  the  heathens  to  their  wits 

(For  all  wise  Scotchmen  of  our  century 

Know  that  first  steps  are  alimentary  ; 

And,  as  we  have  proved,  flesh  pots  and  saucepans 

Must  pave  the  way  for  Wilberforce  plans)  j 

But  Bunyan  err'd  to  think  the  near  gate 

To  take  man's  soul  was  battering  Ear  gate, 

When  reason  should  have  work'd  her  course 

As  men  of  war  do — when  their  force 

Can't  take  a  town  by  open  courage, 

They  steal  an  entry  with  its  forage. 

What  reverend  bishop,  for  example, 

Could  preach  horn'd  Apis  from  his  temple  ? 

Whereas  a  cook  would  soon  unseat  him. 

And  make  his  own  churchwardens  eat  him. 

Not  Irving  could  convert  those  vermin 

Th'  Anthropophages  by  a  sermon  ; 

Whereas  your  Osborne,*  in  a  trice. 

Would  "  take  a  shin  of  beef  and  spice,**— 

And  raise  them  such  a  savoury  smother, 

No  Negro  would  devour  his  brother. 

But  turn  his  stomach  round  as  loth 

As  Persians,  to  the  old  black  broth, — 

For  knowledge  oftenest  makes  an  entry, 

As  well  as  true  love,  through  the  pantry. 

Where  beaux  that  came  at  first  for  feeding 

Grow  gallant  men  and  get  good  breeding  ;— 

Exempli  gratia — in  the  West, 

Ship-traders  say  there  swims  a  nest 

Lined  with  black  natives,  like  a  rookery, 

But  coarse  as  carrion  crows  at  cookery. — 

This  race,  though  now  call'd  O.  Y.  E.  men 

(To  show  they  are  more  than  A.  B.  C.  men), 


•  Cook  to  the  late  Sir  Joseph  Banks. 


102  A  RECIPE— FOR  CIVILISATION. 

Was  once  so  ignorant  of  our  knacks 
They  laid  their  mats  upon  their  backs, 
And  grew  their  quartern  loaves  for  luncheon 
On  trees  that  baked  them  in  the  sunshine. 
As  for  their  bodies,  they  were  coated 
(For  painted  things  are  so  denoted)  ; 
But,  the  naked  truth  is,  stark  primevals, 
That  said  their  prayers  to  timber  devils, 
AUow'd  polygamy — dwelt  in  wigwams, — • 
And,  when  they  meant  a  feast,  ate  big  yams.' 


"  Son  of  the  sleepless.' 


And  why  ? — because  their  savage  nook 
Had  ne'er  been  visited  by  Cook, — 
And  so  they  fared  till  our  great  chief 
Brought  them,  not  Methodists,  but  beef 
In  tubs, — and  taught  them  how  to  live, 
Knowing  it  was  too  soon  to  give. 
Just  then,  a  homily  on  their  sins 
(For  cooking  ends  ere  grace  begins), 
Or  hand  his  tracts  to  the  untractable 
Till  they  could  keep  a  more  exact  table — ■ 
For  Nature  has  her  proper  courses, 
And  wild  men  must  be  back'd  like  horses, 
Which,  jockeys  know,  are  never  fit 
For  riding  till  they've  had  a  bit 


A  RECIPE— FOR  CIVILISATION.  I0!| 

I'  the  mouth  ;  but  then,  with  proper  tackle, 
You  may  trot  them  to  a  tabernacle; 
Ergo  (I  say)  he  first  made  changes 
In  the  heathen  modes  by  kitchen  ranges, 
And  taught  the  king's  cook,  by  convincing 
Process,  that  chewing  was  not  mincing, 
And  in  her  black  fist  thrust  a  bundle 
Of  tracts  abridged  from  Glasse  and  Rundell, 
Where,  ere  she  had  read  beyond  Welsh  rabbits, 
She  saw  the  spareness  of  her  habits. 
And  round  her  loins  put  on  a  striped 
Towel,  where  fingers  might  be  wiped, 
And  then  her  breast  clothed  like  her  ribs 
(For  aprons  lead  of  course  to  bibs). 
And,  by  the  time  she  had  got  a  meat- 
Screen,  veil'd  her  back,  too,  from  the  heat  ; 
As  for  her  gravies  and  her  sauces 
(Though  they  reform'd  the  royal  fauces). 
Her  forcements  and  ragoiits, — I  praise  not, 
Because  the  legend  further  says  not. 
Except,  she  kept  each  Christian  high-day. 
And  once  upon  a  fat  good  Fry-day 
Ran  short  of  logs,  and  told  the  Pagan 
Ti»at  turn'd  the  spit,  to  chop  up  Dagoa  I 


104 


"Tell  me,  my  heart,  can  this  be  Love?" 


ON  THE  POPULAR  CUPID. 


THE  figure  above  was  copied,  by  permission,  from  a  lady's  Vaiig_ 
tine.     To  the  common  apprehension  it  represents  only  a  mirac  .j 
of  stall-feeding — a  babe-Lambert — a  caravan-prodigy  of  grossness,—  _ 
but,  in  the  romantic  mythology,  it  is  the  image  of  the  Divinity  of  • 
Love. 

In  sober  verity, — does  such  an  incubus  oppress  the  female  bosom? 
Can  such  a  monster  of  obesity  be  coeval  with  the  gossamer  natures 
of  Sylph  and  Fairy  in  the  juvenile  faith  ?  Is  this  he — the  buoyant 
Camdeo, — that,  in  the  mind's  eye  of  the  poetess,  drifts  adown  the 
Ganges  in  a  lotos — 

"  Pillow'd  in  a  lotos  flower 
Gather'd  in  a  summer  hour, 
Floats  he  o'er  the  mountain  wave, 
Which  would  be  a  tall  ship's  grave?" 

Is  this  personage  the  disproportionate  partner  for  whom  Pastorella 
sigheth, — in  the  smallest  of  cots  ?  Does  the  platonic  Amanda  (who  is 
all  soul)  refer,  in  her  discourses  on  Love,  to  this  palpable  being,  who 
is  all  body  ?  Or  does  Belinda,  indeed,  believe  that  such  a  substantial 
Sagittarius  lies  ambushed  in  her  perilous  blue  eye  ? 

It  is  in  the  legend  that  a  girl  of  Provence  was  smitten  once,  and 
died,  by  the  marble  Apollo  :  but  did  impassioned  damsel  ever  dote, 


THE  LAST  MAN. 


105 


and  wither,  beside  the  pedestal  of  this  preposterous  effigy?  or  rather, 
is  not  the  unseemly  emblem  accountable  for  the  coyness  and  pro- 
verbial reluctance  of  maidens  to  the  approaches  of  Love  ? 

I  can  believe  in  his  dwellmg  alone  in  the  heart — seeing  that  he 
must  occupy  it  to  repletion  ; — in  his  constancy,  because  he  looks 
sedentary  and  not  apt  to  roam.  That  he  is  given  to  melt — from  his 
great  pinguitude.  That  he  burneth  with  a  flame,  for  so  all  fat  burneth — 
and  hath  languishings— like  other  bodies  of  his  tonnage.  That  he 
sighs — from  his  size. 

I  dispute  not  his  kneeling  at  ladies'  feet — since  it  is  the  posture  of 
elephants, — nor  his  promise  that  the  homage  shall  remain  eternal.  I 
doubt  not  of  his  dying, — being  of  a  corpulent  habit,  and  a  short  neck. — 
Of  his  blindness — with  that  inflated  pig's  cheek.  But  for  his  lodging 
in  Belinda's  blue  eye,  my  whole  faith  is  heretic— /^r  she  hath  neve}-  a 
sty  in  it. 


"The  Last  Man." 


THE  LAST  MAN, 


'TWAS  in  the  year  two  thousand  and  one, 

A  pleasant  morning  of  May, 

I  sat  on  the  gallows-tree,  all  alone, 

A  chaunting  a  merry  lay, — 

To  think  how  the  pest  had  spared  my  life, 

To  sing  with  the  larks  that  day  ! 


B)6  THE  LAST  MANi 

When  up  the  heath  came  a  jolly  knavc^ 
Like  a  scarecrow,  all  in  rags  : 
It  made  me  crow  to  see  his  old  duds 
All  abroad  in  the  wind,  like  flags  : — 
So  up  he  came  to  the  timber's  foot 
And  pitch'd  down  his  greasy  bags. 

Good  Lord  !  how  blythe  the  old  beggar  was  I 

At  puUing  out  his  scraps, — 

The  very  sight  of  his  broken  orts 

Made  a  work  in  his  wrinkled  chaps  : 

«  Come  down,"  says  he,  "  you  Newgate  bird. 

And  have  a  taste  of  my  snaps  ! " 

Then  down  the  rope,  like  a  tar  from  the  mast, 

I  slided,  and  by  him  stood  ; 

But  I  wish'd  myself  on  the  gallows  again 

When  I  smelt  that  beggar's  food — 

A  foul  beef-bone  and  a  mouldy  crust ; 

"  Oh ! "  quoth  he,  "  the  heavens  are  good  1* 

Then  after  this  grace  he  cast  him  down  : 

Says  I,  "  You'll  get  sweeter  air 

A  pace  or  two  off,  on  the  windward  side,* 

For  the  felons'  bones  lay  there. 

But  he  only  laugh'd  at  the  empty  skulls, 

And  offer'd  them  part  of  his  fare. 

•'  I  never  harm'd  ihem,  and  they  won't  harm  me  t 

Let  the  proud  and  the  rich  be  cravens  !" 

I  did  not  like  that  strange  beggar-man, 

He  look'd  so  up  at  the  heavens. 

Anon  he  shook  out  his  emptv  old  poke  ; 

"There's  the  crumbs,"  saith  he,  "for  the  ravens  I* 

It  made  me  angry  to  see  his  face, 

It  had  such  a  jesting  look  ; 

But  while  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak, 

A  small  case-bottle  he  took  : 

Quoth  he,  "  Thou-h  I  gather  the  green  watercress, 

My  drink  is  not  of  the  brook  ! " 

Full  manners-like  he  tender'd  the  dram ; 

Oh,  it  came  of  a  dainty  cask  ! 

But,  whenever  it  came  to  his  turn  to  pull, 

"  Your  leave,  good  sir,  I  must  ask  ; 

But  I  always  wipe  the  brim  with  my  sleeve. 

When  a  hangman  sups  at  my  flask  1 " 


THE  LAST  MAN,  lo) 

And  then  he  laugh'd  so  loudly  and  long, 

The  churl  was  quite  out  of  breath  ; 

I  thought  the  very  Old  One  was  come 

To  mock  me  before  my  death, 

And  wish'd  I  had  buried  the  dead  men's  bones 

That  were  lying  about  the  heath  ! 

But  the  beggar  gave  me  a  jolly  clap— 
"  Come,  let  us  pledge  each  other, 
For  all  the  wide  world  is  dead  beside, 
And  we  are  brother  and  brother — 
I've  a  yearning  for  thee  in  my  heart, 
As  if  we  had  come  of  one  mother. 

"  I've  a  yearning  for  thee  in  my  heart 
That  almost  makes  me  weep, 
For  as  I  pass'd  from  town  to  town 
The  folks  were  all  stone-asleep, — 
But  when  I  saw  thee  sitting  aloft, 
It  made  me  both  laugh  and  leap  !  • 

Now  a  curse  (I  thought)  be  on  his  love, 

And  a  curse  upon  his  mirth, — 

An'  it  were  not  for  that  beggar-man 

I'd  be  the  King  of  the  earth, — 

But  I  promised  myself  an  hour  should  comc 

To  make  him  rue  his  birth  ! 

So  down  we  sat  and  boused  again 

Till  the  sun  was  in  mid-sky, 

When,  just  when  the  gentle  west  wind  came^ 

We  hearken'd  a  dismal  cry  ; 

**  Up,  up,  on  the  tree,"  quoth  the  beggar-man, 

"  Till  those  horrible  dogs  go  by  1 " 

And,  lo  !  from  the  forest's  far-off  skirts 

They  came  all  yelling  for  gore, 

A  hundred  hounds  pursuing  at  once, 

And  a  panting  hart  before, 

Till  he  sunk  adown  at  the  gallows'  foot. 

And  there  his  haunches  they  tore  ! 

His  haunches  they  tore,  without  a  horn 
To  tell  when  the  chase  was  done  ; 
And  there  was  not  a  single  scarlet  coat 
To  flaunt  it  in  the  sun! 
I  turn'd,  and  look'd  at  the  beggar-man, 
And  his  tears  dropt  one  by  one  1 


ia8  THE  LAST  MAN. 

And  with  curses  sore  he  chid  at  the  hounds, 

Till  the  last  dropt  out  of  sight  ; 

Anon,  saith  he,  "  Let's  down  again 

And  ramble  for  our  delight, 

For  the  world's  all  free,  and  we  may  choose 

A  right  cozie  barn  for  to-night !  " 

With  that,  he  set  up  his  staff  on  end, 
And  it  fell  with  the  point  due  west  ; 
So  we  fared  that  way  to  a  city  great, 
Where  the  folks  had  died  of  the  pest- 
It  was  fine  to  enter  in  house  and  hall, 
Wherever  it  liked  me  best ! 

For  the  porters  all  were  stiff  and  cold, 

And  could  not  lift  their  heads  ; 

And  when  he  came  where  their  masters  lay, 

The  rats  leapt  out  of  the  beds  ; 

The  grandest  palaces  in  the  land 

Were  as  free  as  workhouse  sheds. 

But  the  beggar-man  made  a  mumping  fac^ 

And  knock'd  at  every  gate  : 

It  made  me  curse  to  hear  how  he  whined. 

So  our  fellowship  turn'd  to  hate, 

And  I  bade  him  walk  the  world  by  himself. 

For  I  scorn'd  so  humble  a  mate  1 

So  he  turn'd  right,  and  /  turn'd  left. 

As  if  we  had  never  met ; 

And  I  chose  a  fair  stone  house  for  myself, 

For  the  city  was  all  to  let  ; 

And  for  three  brave  holydays  drank  my  fill 

Of  the  choicest  that  I  could  get. 


And  because  my  jerkin  was  coarse  and  worn, 

I  got  me  a  properer  vest ; 

It  was  purple  velvet,  stitch'd  o'er  with  gold, 

And  a  shining  star  at  the  breast  ! — 

*Twas  enoui;h  to  fetch  old  Joan  from  her  grave 

To  see  me  so  purely  drest ! 

But  Joan  was  dead  and  under  the  mould, 

And  every  buxom  lass  ; 

In  vain  I  watch'd,  at  the  window  pane, 

For  a  Christian  soul  to  pass  ! 

But  sheep  and  kine  wander'd  up  the  street. 

And  browsed  on  the  new-come  grass. 


THE  LAST  MAN.  iog 

When  lo  !  I  spied  the  old  beggar-man, 

And  lustily  he  did  sing  ! 

His  rags  were  lapp'd  in  a  scarlet  cloak, 

And  a  crown  he  had  like  a  King  ; 

So  he  stepp'd  right  up  before  my  gate, 

And  danced  me  a  saucy  fling  ! 

Heaven  mend  us  all  ! — but,  within  my  mind, 
I  had  kill'd  him  then  and  there  ; 
To  see  him  lording  so  br.iggart-like 
Thcit  was  born  to  his  beggar's  fare, 
And  how  he  had  stolen  the  royal  crown 
His  betters  were  meant  to  wear. 

But  God  forbid  that  a  thief  should  die 

Without  his  share  of  the  laws  ! 

So  I  nimbly  whipt  my  tackle  out. 

And  soon  tied  up  his  claws, — 

I  was  judge,  myself,  and  jury,  and  all, 

And  solemnly  tried  the  case. 

But  the  beggar-man  would  not  plead,  but  cried 

Like  a  babe  without  its  corals, 
For  he  knew  how  hard  it  is  apt  to  go 
When  the  law  and  a  thief  have  quarrels,— 
There  was  not  a  Christian  soul  alive 
To  speak  a  word  for  his  morals. 

Oh,  how  gaily  I  doff'd  my  costly  gear, 

And  put  on  my  work-day  clothes  ; 

I  was  tired  of  such  a  long  Sunday  life, 

And  never  was  one  of  the  sloths  ; 

But  the  beggar-man  grumbled  a  weary  dealf 

And  made  many  crooked  mouths. 

So  I  haul'd  him  off  to  the  gallows'  foot. 

And  blinded  him  in  his  bags  ; 

'Twas  a  weary  job  to  heave  him  up, 

For  a  doom'd  man  always  lags  ; 

But  by  ten  of  the  clock  he  was  off  his  legs 

In  the  wind,  and  airing  his  rags  1 

So  there  he  hun?,  and  there  I  stood. 
The  LAST  MAN  left  alive, 
To  have  my  own  will  of  all  the  earth! 
Quoth  I,  "  Now  1  shall  thrive  !" 
But  when  was  ever  honey  made 
With  one  bee  in  a  hive  ? 


«W  THE  LAST  MAN. 

My  conscience  began  to  gnaw  my  heart 

Before  the  day  was  done, 

For  other  men's  lives  had  all  gone  out, 

Like  candles  in  the  sun  ! — 

But  it  seem'd  as  if  I  had  broke,  at  las^ 

A  thousand  necks  in  one  ! 

So  I  went  and  cut  his  body  down 

To  bury  it  decentlie  ; — 

God  send  there  were  any  good  soul  alive 

To  do  the  like  by  me  ! 

But  the  wild  dogs  came  with  terrible  speed. 

And  bay'd  me  up  the  tree  ! 

My  sight  was  like  a  drunkard's  sight. 
And  my  head  began  to  swim, 
To  see  their  jaws  all  white  with  foam, 
Like  the  ravenous  ocean  brim  ; — 
But  when  the  wild  dogs  trotted  away, 
Their  jaws  were  bloody  and  grim! 

Their  jaws  were  bloody  and  grim,  good  Lord  \ 

But  the  beggar-man,  where  was  he  ? — 

There  was  nought  of  him  but  some  ribbons  of  rags 

Below  the  gallows'  tree  ! — 

I  know  the  Devil,  when  I  am  dead, 

Will  send  his  hounds  for  me  ! 

I've  buried  my  babies  one  by  one, 
And  dug  the  deep  hole  for  Joan, 
And  cover'd  the  faces  of  kith  and  kin. 
And  felt  the  old  churchyard  stone 
Go  cold  to  my  heart  full  many  a  time, 
But  I  never  felt  so  lone ! 

For  the  lion  and  Adam  were  company. 
And  the  tiger  him  beguiled  ; 
But  the  simple  kine  are  foes  to  my  life, 
And  the  household  brutes  are  wild. 
If  the  veriest  cur  would  lick  my  hand, 
I  could  love  it  hke  a  child  1 

And  the  beggar-man's  ghost  besets  my  dreams, 

At  night,  to  make  me  madder, — 

And  my  wretched  conscience,  within  my  breast, 

Is  like  a  stinging  adder  ; — 

I  sit^h  when  I  pass  the  gallows'  foot, 

And  look  at  the  rope  and  ladder !— 


THE  LAST  MAIV, 


III 


For  hanging  looks  sweet, — but,  alas  !  in  vain 

My  desperate  fancy  begs, — 

I  must  turn  my  cup  of  sorrows  quite  up,         , 

And  drink  it  to  the  dregs, — 

For  there's  not  another  man  alive 

In  the  world  to  pull  my  legs  ! 


'  Pigmy  aad  Crane. 


112 


Christmas  Pantomime. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ''SALLY  BROWN,  AND  BEN 

THE  carpenter:' 


I  HAVE  never  been  vainer  of  any  verses  than  of  my  part  in  the  following  Ballad. 
Dr  Watts,  amongst  evangelical  nurses,  has  an  enviable  renown — and 
Campbell's  Ballads  enjoy  a  snug  genteel  popularity.  "  Sally  Brown  "  has 
been  favoured,  perhaps,  with  as  wide  a  patronage  as  the  Moral  Songs, 
though  its  circle  may  not  have  been  of  so  select  a  class  as  the  friends  of 
"  Hohenlinden."  But  I  do  not  desire  to  see  it  amongst  what  are  called 
Elegant  Extracts.  The  lamented  Emery,  drest  as  Tom  Tug,  sang  it  at 
his  last  mortal  Benefit  at  Covent  Garden  ; — and,  ever  since,  it  has  been 
a  great  favourite  with  the  watermen  of  Thames,  who  time  their  oars  to  it, 
as  the  wherry-men  of  Venice  time  theirs  to  the  lines  of  Tasso.  With  the 
watermen,  it  went  naturally  to  Vauxliall  : — and,  over  land,  to  Sadler's 
Wells.  The  Guards,  not  the  mail  coach,  but  the  Life  Guards, — picked  it 
out  from  a  fluttering  hundred  of  others— all  going  to  one  air — against  the 
dead  wall  at  Knightsbridge.  Cheap  Printers  of  Shoe  Lane  and  Cow- 
cross,  (all  pirates  !)  disputed  about  the  Copyright,  and  published  their 
own  editions, — and,  in  the  meantime,  the  Authors,  to  have  made  bread 
of  their  .^ong  (it  was  poor  old  Homer's  hard  ancient  case  !)  must  have 
sung  it  about  the  streets.  Such  is  the  lot  of  Literature  !  the  profits  of 
"  Sally  Brown  "  were  divided  by  the  Ballad  Mongers  : — it  has  cost,  but 
has  never  brought  me,  a  halfpenny. 


"3 

FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 

AN  OLD   BALLAD,* 

Young  Ben  he  was  a^ice  young  man, 

A  carpenter  by  trade  ; 
And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 

That  was  a  lady's  maid. 

But  as  they  fetch'd  a  walk  one  day, 

They  met  a  press-gang  crew  ; 
And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  Boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words, 

Enough  to  shock  a  saint, 
That  though  she  did  seem  in  a  fit, 

'Twas  nothing  but  a  feint. 

•*  Come,  girl,"  said  he,  "  hold  up  your  head, 

He'll  be  as  good  as  me  ; 
For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat, 

A  boatswain  he  will  be." 

So  when  they'd  made  their  game  of  her. 

And  taken  off  her  elf, 
She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 

A  coming  to  herself. 

"And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone?* 

She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 
*  Then  I  will  to  the  water  side. 

And  see  him  out  of  sight." 

A  waterman  came  up  to  her, 

"  Now,  young  woman,"  said  he, 
"If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 

Eye-water  in  the  sea." 

"  Alas  !  they've  taken  my  beau  Ben 

To  sail  with  old  Benbow  ; " 
And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh. 

As  if  she'd  said  Gee  woe  ! 

Printed  in  the  London  Magazine  (1822),  vol.  v.  p.  203, 

H 


i«4 


SALLY  BROWN. 

Says  he,  "  They've  only  taken  him 
To  the  Tender-ship,  you  see  ; " 

"  The  Tender-ship,"  cried  Sally  Brown, 
"  What  a  hard-ship  that  Kiust  be  I 

"  Oh  !  would  I  were  a  mermaid  now, 

For  then  I'd  follow  him  ; 
But  oh  ! — I'm  not  a  fish-woman. 

And  so  I  cannot  swim. 

**  Alas  !  I  was  not  born  beneath 

The  Virgin  and  the  Scales, 
So  I  must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 

And  walk  about  in  Wales." 

Now  Ben  had  sail'd  to  many  a  place 
That's  underneath  the  world  ; 

But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home, 
And  all  her  sails  were  furl'd. 

But  when  he  call'd  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  went  on, 
He  found  she'd  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian  name  was  John. 

**0  Sally  Brown,  O  Sally  Brown  I 
How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 

I've  met  with  many  a  breeze  before, 
But  never  such  a  blow  !  " 

Then  reading  on  his  'bacco-bo^ 

He  heaved  a  bitter  sigh, 
And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe. 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  "  All's  WeU  » 
But  could  not  though  he  tried  ; 

His  head  was  turn'd,  and  so  he  chew'd 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happen'd  in  his  birth. 

At  forty-odd  befell : 
They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 

The  sexton  toU'd  the  belL 


"5 


O  my  bonnie,  bonnie  Bet  ! ' 


BACKING  THE  FAVOURITE. 

Oh  a  pistol,  or  a  knife  ! 
For  I'm  weary  of  my  life, — 

My  cup  has  nothing  sweet  left  to  flavour  it ; 
My  estate  is  out  at  nurse, 
And  my  heart  is  like  my  purse, — 

And  all  through  backing  of  the  Favourite ! 

At  dear  O'Neil's  first  start, 
I  sported  all  my  heart, — 

Oh,  Becher,  he  never  marr'd  a  braver  hit  1 
For  he  cross'd  her  in  her  race, 
And  made  her  lose  her  place, 

And  there  was  an  end  of  that  Favourite  I 


Anon,  to  mend  my  chance, 
For  the  Goddess  of  the  Dance* 

I  pined,  and  told  my  enslaver  it  !— 
But  she  wedded  in  a  canter, 
And  made  me  a  Levanter, 

In  foreign  lands  to  sigh  for  the  Favourite  ! 

*  The  late  favourite  of  the  King's  Theatre,  who  left  the  pas  seul  of  life,  foi 
a  perpetual  Ball.  Is  not  that  lier  efifigy  now  commonly  borne  about  by  the 
Italian  image  vendors— an  ethereal  fi)rm  holding  a  wreath  with  both  hands 
above  her  head— and  her  husband,  in  embltnii,  beneaih  her  foot? 


ri6  A  COMPLAINT  AGAINST  GREATNESS. 

Then  next  Miss  M.  A.  Tree 
I  adored,  so  sweetly  she 

Could  warble  like  a  nightingale  and  quaver  it,— 
But  she  left  that  course  of  life 
To  be  Mr  Bradshaw's  wife, 

And  all  the  world  lost  on  the  Favourite  ! 

But  out  of  sorrow's  surf 
Soon  I  leap'd  upon  the  turf, 

Where  fortune  loves  to  wanton  it  and  waver  it  ; — 
But  standing  on  the  pet, 
"  O  my  bonnie,  bonnie  I3et ! " 

Black  and  yellow  puU'd  short  up  with  the  Favourite ! 

Thus  flung  by  all  the  crack, 
I  resolved  to  cut  the  pack, — 

The  second-raters  seem'd  then  a  safer  hit ! 
So  I  laid  my  little  odds 
Against  Memnon  !  O  ye  Gods  ! 

Am  I  always  to  be  fioor'd  by  the  Favourite  ! 


Oil,  that  this  too  too  Solid  flesh  would  melt  1  " 


A  COMPLAINT  AGAINST  GREATNESS. 

I  AM  an  unfortunate  creature,  the  most  wretched  of  all  that  groan 
under  the  burden  of  the  flesh.  I  am  fainting,  as  they  say  of  kings, 
under  my  oppressive  greatness,  A  miserable  Atlas,  I  sink  under  the 
world  of — myself. 


A  COMPLAINT  AGAlNi>  T  GREA  TNESS,  Iiy 

But  the  curious  will  here  ask  me  for  my  name.  I  am,  then,  or  they 
say  I  am,  "The  Reverend  Mr  Farmer,  a  four-years'  old  Durham  Ox, 
fed  by  himself,  upon  oil-cake  and  mangel-wurzel:"  but  I  resemble 
that  worthy  agricultural  Vicar  only  in  my  fat  living.  In  plain  truth, 
I  am  an  unhappy  candidate  for  the  show  at  Sadler's — not  "  the  Wells,* 
but  the  Repository.  They  tell  me  I  am  to  bear  the  bell  (as  if  I  had 
not  enough  to  bear  already  !)  by  my  surpassing  tonnage — and,  doubt- 
less, the  pzize-emblem  will  be  proportioned  to  my  uneasy  merits.  With 
a  great  Tom  of  Lincoln  about  my  neck — alas  !  what  will  it  comfort 
me  to  have  been  "  commended  by  the  judges  ?" 

Wearisome  and  painful  was  my  pilgrim-like  progress  to  this  place,, 
by  short  and  tremulous  steppings,  like  the  digit's  march  upon  a  dial. 
My  owner,  jealous  of  my  fat,  procured  a  crippled  drover,  with  a 
withered  limb,  for  my  conductor  ;  but  even  he  hurried  me  beyond  my 
breath.  The  drawling  hearse  left  me  labouring  behind  ;  the  ponderous 
fly-waggon  passed  me  like  a  bird  upon  the  road,  so  tediously  slow  is 
my  pace.  It  just  sufficeth,  O  ye  thrice-happy  Oysters  !  that  have  no 
locomotive  faculty  at  all,  to  distinguish  that  I  am  not  at  rest.  Wher- 
ever the  grass  grew  by  the  wayside,  how  it  tempted  my  natural  long- 
ings—the cool  brook  flowed  at  my  very  foot,  but  this  short  thick  neck 
forbade  me  to  eat  or  drink  :  nothing  but  my  redundant  dewlap  is 
likely  ever  to  graze  on  the  ground  ! 

If  stalls  and  troughs  were  not  extant,  I  must  perish.  Nature  has 
given  to  the  Elephant  a  long  flexible  tube,  or  trunk,  so  that  he  can 
feed  his  mouth,  as  it  were,  by  his  nose  ;  but  is  man  able  to  furnish 
me  with  such  an  implement?  Or  would  he  not  still  withholdit,  lest 
I  should  prefer  the  green  herb,  my  natural  delicious  diet,  and  reject  his 
rank,  unsavoury  condiments  ?  What  beast,  with  free  will,  but  would 
repair  to  the  sweet  meadow  for  its  pasture  :  and  yet  how  grossly  is  he 
labelled  and  libelled  ?  Your  bovine  servant,  in  the  catalogue,  is  a 
"Durham  Ox,  fed  by  himself  {:as  if  he  had  any  election),  upon  oilcake." 

I  wonder  what  rapacious  Cook,  with  an  eye  to  her  insatiable  grease- 
pot  and  kitchen  perquisites,  gave  the  hint  of  this  system  of  stall- 
feeding  !  What  unctuous  Hull  Merchant,  or  candle-loving  Muscovite, 
made  this  grossness  a  desideratum  ?  If  mine  were,  indeed,  like  the  fat 
of  the  tender  sucking-pig,  that  delicate  gluten  1  there  would  be  reason 
for  its  unbounded  promotion  ;  but  to  see  the  prize  steak,  loaded  with 
that  rank  yellow  abomination  (the  lamplighters  know  its  relish),  might 
wean  a  man  from  carnivorous  habits  for  ever.  Verily,  it  is  an  abuse 
of  the  Christmas  holly,  the  emblem  of  Old  English  and  wholesome 
cheer,  to  plant  it  upon  such  blubber.  A  gentlemanly  entrail  must  be 
driven  to  extreme  straits,  indeed  (Davis's  Straits),  to  feel  any  yearnings 
for  such  a  meal ;  and  yet  I  am  told  that  an  assembly  of  gentry,  with 
all  the  celebrations  of  full  bumpers  and  a  blazing  chimney-pot,  have 
honoured  the  broiled  slices  of  a  prize  bullock,  a  dishful  of  stringy 
fibres,  an  animal  cabbage-net,  and  that  rank  even  hath  been  satisfied 
with  its  rankness. 

Will  the  honourable  club,  whose  aim  it  is  thus  to  make  the  beastly 
nature  more  beastly,  consider  of  this  matter  ?  Will  the  humane,  when 
they  provide  against  the  torments  of  cats  and  dogs,  take  no  notice  of 
our  condition?     Nature,  to  the  whales,  and  creatures  of  their  cor« 


iz8 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 


pulence,  has  assigned  the  cool  deeps  ;  but  we  have  no  such  refuge  in 
our  meltings.  At  least,  let  the  stall-feeder  confine  his  svstem  to  the 
uncleanly  swine  which  chews  not  the  cud  ;  for  let  the  worthy  members 
conceive  on  the  palate  of  ima^nnation,  the  abominable  returns  of  the 
refuse-linseed  in  our  after  ruminations.  Oh,  let  us  not  suffer  in  vain  ! 
It  may  seem  presumption  in  a  brute  to  question  the  human  wisdom  ; 
but,  truly,  I  can  perceive  no  beneficial  ends,  worthy  to  be  set  off 
against  our  sufferings.  There  must  be,  methinks,  a  nearer  way  of 
augmenting  the  perquisites  of  the  kitchen-wench  and  the  fire-man,— 
of  killing  frogs,— than  by  exciting  them,  at  the  expense  of  us  poor 
blown-up  oxen,  to  a  mortal  inflation. 


"  All's  well  that  ends  well." 


•     THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE. 

"Alas  I  what  perils  do  environ 
The  man  that  meddles  with  a  siren."— Hudibras. 

On  Margate  beach,  where  the  sick  one  roams, 

And  the  sentimental  reads  ; 
Where  the  maiden  flirts,  and  the  widow  comes- 

Like  the  ocean — to  cast  her  weeds  ; 

Where  urchins  wander  to  pick  up  shells, 
And  the  Cit  to  spy  at  the  ships, — 

Like  the  water  gala  at  Sadler's  Wells,— 
And  the  Chandler  for  watery  dips  ; — 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGATE^  ««S 

There's  a  maiden  sits  by  the  ocean  brim, 

As  lovely  and  fair  as  Sin  ! 
But  woe,  deep  water  and  woe  to  him. 

That  she  snareth  like  Peter  Fin  ! 

Her  head  is  crown'd  with  pretty  sea-wares, 

And  her  locks  are  golden  and  loose  : 
And  seek  to  her  feet,  like  other  folks'  heirs, 

To  stand,  of  course,  in  her  shoes  ! 

And  all  day  long  she  combeth  them  well, 

With  a  sea-shark's  prickly  jaw  ; 
And  her  mouth  is  just  like  a  rose-lipp'd  shell. 

The  fairest  that  man  e'er  saw  ! 

And  the  Fishmonger,  humble  as  love  may  be^ 

Hath  planted  his  seat  by  her  side  ; 
*  Good  even,  fair  maid  !     Is  thy  lover  at  sea. 

To  make  thee  so  watch  the  tide  ?" 

She  tum'd  about  with  her  pearly  brows, 

And  clasp'd  him  by  the  hand  ; 
**  Come,  love,  with  me  ;  I've  a  bonny  house 

On  the  golden  Goodwin  Sand." 

And  then  she  gave  him  a  siren  kiss. 

No  honeycomb  e'er  was  sweeter  : 
Poor  wretch  !  how  little  he  dreamt  for  this 

That  Peter  should  be  salt-Peter ! 

And  away  with  her  prize  to  the  wave  she  leapt. 

Not  walking,  as  damsels  do, 
With  toe  and  heel,  as  she  ought  to  have  stept. 

But  she  hopp'd  like  a  Kangaroo  ! 

One  plunge,  and  then  the  victim  was  blind. 

Whilst  they  gallop'd  across  the  tide  ; 
At  last,  on  the  bank  he  waked  in  his  mind. 

And  the  Beauty  was  by  his  side. 

One  half  on  the  sand,  and  half  in  the  sea. 

But  his  hair  all  began  to  stiffen  ; 
For  when  he  look'd  where  her  feet  should  b«^ 

She  had  no  more  feet  than  Miss  Biffen  I 

But  a  scaly  tail,  of  a  dolphin's  growth. 

In  the  dabbling  brine  did  soak  : 
At  last  she  open'd  her  pearly  mouth, 

Like  an  oyster,  and  thus  she  spoke : 


120  THE  MERMaID  of  MARGA  TE. 

"  You  crimp'd  my  father,  who  was  a  skate,— 

And  my  sister  you  sold — a  maid  j 
So  here  remain  for  a  fishery  fate, 
For  lost  you  are,  and  betray'd  ! " 

And  away  she  went,  with  a  seagull's  scream. 

And  a  splash  of  her  saucy  tail ; 
In  a  moment  he  lost  the  silvery  gleam 

That  shone  on  her  splendid  mail ! 

The  sun  went  down  with  a  blood-red  flame, 
And  the  sky  grew  cloudy  and  black. 

And  the  tumbling  billows  like  leap-frog  came. 
Each  over  the  other's  back  ! 

Ah  me  !  it  had  been  a  beautiful  scene, 

With  a  safe  terra-firma  round  ; 
But  the  green  water-hillocks  all  seem'd  to  him 

Like  those  in  a  churchyard  ground  ; 

And  Christians  love  in  the  turf  to  lie^ 

Not  in  watery  graves  to  be  ; 
Nay,  the  very  fishes  will  sooner  die 

On  the  land  than  in  the  sea. 

And  whilst  he  stood,  the  watery  strife 

Encroach'd  on  every  hand, 
And  the  ground  decreased, — his  moments  of  life 

Seem'd  measured,  like  Time's,  by  sand  ; 

And  still  the  waters  foam'd  in,  like  ale, 

In  front  and  on  either  flank  ; 
He  knew  that  Goodwin  and  Co.  must  fail. 

There  was  such  a  run  on  the  bank. 

A  little  more,  and  a  little  more, 

The  surges  came  tumbling  in  ; 
He  sang  the  evening  hymn  twice  o'er, 

And  thought  of  every  sin  ! 

Each  flounder  and  plaice  lay  cold  at  his  hear^ 

As  cold  as  his  marble  slab  ; 
And  he  thought  he  felt,  in  every  part, 

The  pincers  of  scalded  crab  1 

The  squealing  lobsters  that  he  had  boii'd. 

And  the  little  potted  shrimps, 
AH  the  horny  prawns  he  had  ever  spoil'd, 

Gnaw'd  into  his  soul,  like  imps  ! 


THE  MERMAID  OF  MARGA  TE.  Ml 

And  the  billows  were  wandering  to  and  fro, 

And  the  glorious  sun  was  sunk, 
And  Day,  getting  black  in  the  face,  as  though 

Of  the  night-shade  she  had  drunk  ! 

Had  there  been  but  a  smuggler's  cargo  adrift, 

One  tub,  or  keg,  to  be  seen, 
It  might  have  given  his  spirits  a  lift. 

Or  an  anker  where  Hope  might  lean  ! 

But  there  was  not  a  box  or  a  beam  afloat, 

To  raft  him  from  that  sad  place  ; 
Not  a  skiff,  not  a  yawl,  or  a  mackerel-boat, 

Nor  a  smack  upon  Neptune's  face. 

At  last,  his  lingering  hopes  to  buoy, 

He  saw  a  sail  and  a  mast, 
And  call'd  "  Ahoy  ! " — but  it  was  not  a  hoy, 

And  so  the  vessel  went  past 

And  with  saucy  wing  that  flapp'd  in  his  face. 

The  wild  bird  about  him  flew, 
With  a  shrilly  scream,  that  twitted  his  case, 

"  Why,  thou  art  a  sea-gull  too  ! " 

And  lo  !  the  tide  was  over  his  feet ; 

Oh  !  his  heart  began  to  freeze, 
And  slowly  to  pulse  : — in  another  beat 

The  wave  was  up  to  his  knees ! 

He  was  deafen'd  amidst  the  mountain-tops, 

And  the  salt  spray  blinded  his  eyes, 
And  wash'd  away  the  other  salt  drops 

That  grief  had  caused  to  arise  : — 

But  just  as  his  body  was  all  afloat, 

And  the  surges  above  him  broke. 
He  was  saved  from  the  hungrv  deep  by  a  boat 

Of  Deal— (but  builded  of  oak). 

The  skipper  gave  him  a  dram,  as  he  lay, 

And  chafed  his  shivering  skin  : 
And  the  Angel  return'd  that  was  flying  away 

With  the  spirit  of  Peter  Fin  I 


122 


c::^^ 


"My  son,  sir.' 


MY  SON,  SIR. 

IT  happened,  the  other  evening,  that,  intending  to  call  at  L 
Street,  I  arrived  a  few  minutes  before  Hyson  ;  when  W  *  *  *, 
seated  beside  the  Urn,  his  eyes  shaded  by  his  hand,  was  catechising 
his  learned  prodigy,  the  Master  Hopeful,  as  if  for  a  tea-table  degree. 
It  was  a  whimsical  contrast  between  the  fretful,  pouting  visage  of  the 
urchin,  having  his  gums  rubbed  so  painfully,  to  bring  forward  his 
wisdom-tooth — and  the  parental  visage,  sage,  solemn,  and  satisfied, 
and  appealing  ever  and  anon,  by  a  dramatic  side-look,  to  the  circle  of 
smirking  auditors. 

W  *  *  *  was  fond  of  this  kind  of  display,  eternally  stirring  up  the 
child  for  exhibition  with  his  troublesome  long  pole, — besides  lecturing 
him  through  the  diurnal  vacations  so  tediously,  that  the  poor  urchin 
was  fain, — for  the  sake  of  a  little  play, — to  get  into  school  again. 

I  hate  all  forcing-frames  for  the  young  intellect, — and  the  Locke 
system,  which  after  all  is  but  a  Canal  system  for  raising  the  babe- 
mind  to  unnatural  levels.  I  pity  the  poor  child  that  is  learned  in 
alpha  beta,  but  ignorant  of  top  and  taw  ;  and  was  never  so  maliciously 

f  ratified  as  when,  in  spite  of  all  his  promptings  and  leading  questions, 
beheld  W  *  *  *  reddening,  even  to  the  conscious  tips  of  his  tingling 
ears,  at  the  boy's  untimely  inaptitude.  Why  could  he  not  rest  con- 
tented, when  the  poor  imp  had  answered  him  already,  "  What  was  a 
Roman  Emperor?" — without  requiring  an  interpretation  oi  the  Logos  f 


x^ 


"  As  it  fell  upon  a  day." 


*' AS  IT  FELL  UPON  A  DAYP 


I  WONDER  that  W ,  the  Ami  des  Enfans,  has  never  written  a 
sonnet,  or  ballad,  on  a  girl  that  had  broken  her  pitcher.  There 
are  in  the  subject  the  poignant  heart's  anguish  for  sympathy  and  de- 
scription ; — and  the  brittleness  of  jars  and  joys,  with  the  abrupt  loss 
of  the  watery  fruits — {i\\e piimpkius  as  it  were) — of  her  labours,  for  a 
moral.  In  such  childish  accidents  there  is  a  world  of  woe; — the  fall 
of  earthenware  is  to  babes  as,  to  elder  contemplations,  the  Fall  of 
Man. 

I  have  often  been  tempted  myself  to  indite  a  didactic  ode  to  that 
urchin  in  Hogarth  with  the  ruined  pie-dish.  What  a  lusty  anguish  is 
wringing  him — so  that  all  for  pity  he  could  die  ; — and  then  there  is 
the  instantaneous  falling  on  of  the  beggar-girl  to  lick  up  the  fragments 
— expressively  hinting  how  universally  want  and  hunger  are  abounding 
in  this  miserable  world, — and  ready  gaping  at  every  turn,  for  such 
windfalls  and  stray  godsends.  But,  hark  ! — what  a  shrill,  feline  cry 
startleth  the  wide  Aldgate  ! 


««4  A  FAIRY  TALE. 

Oh  !  what's  befallen  Bessy  Brown, 
She  stands  so  squalling  in  the  street? 

She's  let  her  pitcher  tumble  down, 
And  all  the  water's  at  her  feet ! 

The  little  schoolboys  stood  about, 

And  laugh'd  to  see  her  pumping,  pumping  j 

Now  with  a  curtsey  to  the  spout, 
And  then  upon  her  tiptoes  jumping. 

Long  time  she  waited  for  her  neighbours 
To  have  their  turns  : — but  she  must  lose 

The  watery  wages  of  her  labours,— 
Except  a  little  in  her  shoes  ! 

Without  a  voice  to  tell  her  tale, 
And  ugly  transport  in  her  face  ; 

All  like  a  jugless  nightingale. 
She  thinks  of  her  bereaved  case. 

At  last  she  sobs — she  cries — she  screams  !— 
And  pours  her  flood  of  sorrows  out, 

From  eyes  and  mouth,  in  mingled  streams. 
Just  like  the  lion  on  the  spout. 

For  well  poor  Bessy  knows  her  mother 
Must  lose  her  tea,  for  water's  lack, 

That  Sukey  burns — and  baby-brotlier 
Must  be  dry-rubb'd  with  huck-a-back ! 


A  FAIRY  TALE, 

On  Hounslow  Heath,  and  close  beside  the  road, 
As  western  travellers  may  oft  have  seen,  v 

A  little  house  some  years  ago  there  stood, 

A  minikin  abode  ; 
And  built  like  Mr  Birkbeck's,  aii  of  wood  : 
The  walls  of  white,  the  window  shutters  green  ^. 
Four  wheels  it  hath  at  North,  South,  East,  and  West 

(Though  now  at  rest). 
On  which  it  used  to  wander  to  and  fro, 
Because  its  master  ne'er  maintain'd  a  rider, 

Like  those  who  trade  in  Paternoster  Row  ; 
But  made  his  business  travel  for  itself, 

Till  he  had  made  his  pelf, 
And  then  retired — if  one  may  call  it  so. 

Of  a  roadsider. 


A  FAIRY  TALE.  isj 

Perchance,  the  very  race  and  constant  riot 
Of  stages,  long  and  short,  which  thereby  ran, 
Made  him  more  rehsh  the  repose  and  quiet 

Of  his  now  sedentary  caravan  ; 
Perchance,  he  loved  the  ground  because  'twas  common. 
And  so  he  might  impale  a  strip  of  soil 
That  furnish'd,  by  his  toil, 
Some  dusty  greens,  for  him  and  his  old  woman  ; — 
And  five  tall  hollyhocks,  in  dingy  flower, 
Howbeit,  the  thoroughfare  did  no  ways  spoil 
His  peace,  unless,  in  some  unlucky  hour, 
A  stray  horse  came  and  gobbled  up  his  bower  I 

But  tired  of  always  looking  at  the  coaches, 

The  same  to  come, — when  they  had  seen  them  one  day  I 

And  used  to  brisker  life,  both  man  and  wife 
Began  to  suffer  N  U  E's  approaches, 
And  feel  retirement  like  a  long  wet  Sunday, — 
So,  having  had  some  quarters  of  school  breeding. 
They  turn'd  themselves  like  other  folks,  to  reading  j 
But  setting  out  where  others  nigh  have  done, 
And  being  ripen'd  in  the  seventh  stage, 

The  childhood  of  old  age, 
Began,  as  other  children  have  begun,— 
Not  with  the  pastorals  of  Mr  Pope, 

Or  Bard  of  Hope, 
Or  Paley  ethical,  or  learned  Porson,— 
But  spelt,  on  Sabbaths,  in  St  Mark,  or  John, 
And  then  relax'd  themselves  with  Whittington, 

Or  Valentine  and  Orson — 
But  chiefly  fairy  tales  they  loved  to  con. 
And  being  easily  melted  in  their  dotage, 

Slobber'd, — and  kept 

Reading, — and  wept 
Over  the  White  Cat,  in  their  wooden  cottage. 

Thus  reading  on — the  longer 
They  read,  of  course,  their  ciiildish  faith  grew  stronger 
In  Gnomes,  and  Hags,  and  tlvt.  s,  and  Giants  grim, — 
If  talking  Trees  and  liirds  reveal'd  to  him. 
She  saw  the  flight  of  Fairyland's  fly-waggons. 

And  magic  fishes  swim 
In  puddle  ponds,  and  took  old  crows^or  dragons. — 
Both  were  quite  drunk  from  the  enchanted  flagons  j 
When  as  it  fell  upon  a  summer's  day, 

As  the  old  man  sat  a  feeding 
On  the  old  babe-reading. 
Beside  his  open  street-and-parlour  door, 

A  hideous  roar 
Proclaim'd  a  drove  of  beasts  was  coming  by  the  way. 


ta6  A  FAIRY  TALE. 

Long-hom'd,  and  short,  of  many  a.  different  breed, 
Tall,  tawny  brutes,  from  famous  Lincoln-levels 

Or  Durham  feed  ; 
With  some  of  those  unquiet  black  dwarf  devils 

From  nether  side  of  Tweed, 

Or  Firth  of  Forth  ; 
Looking  half  wild  with  joy  to  leave  the  North, — 
With  dusty  hides,  all  mobbing  on  together, — 
When, — whether  from  a  fly's  malicious  comment 
Upon  his  tender  flank,  from  which  he  shrank  ; 

Or  whether 
Only  in  some  enthusiastic  moment, — 
However,  one  brown  monster,  in  a  frisk, 
Giving  his  tail  a  perpendicular  whisk, 
Kick'd  out  a  passage  through  the  beastly  rabble  j 
And  after  a  pas  seul, — or,  if  you  will,  a 
Horn-pipe  before  the  Basket-maker's  villa. 

Leapt  o'er  the  tiny  pale, — 
Back'd  his  beef-steaks  against  the  vvooden  gable* 
And  thrust  his  brawny  bell-rope  of  a  tail 

Right  o'er  the  page, 

Wherein  the  sage 
Just  then  was  spelling  some  romantic  fable. 


The  old  man,  half  a  scholar,  half  a  dunce, 

Could  not  peruse, — who  could  ? — two  tales  at  once  ; 

And  being  huff'd 
At  what  he  knew  was  none  of  Riquet's  Tuft, 

Bang'd-to  the  door. 
But  most  unluckily  enclosed  a  morsel 
Of  the  intruding  tail,  and  all  the  tassel  : — 

The  monster  gave  a  roar, 
And  bolting  off  with  speed  increased  by  pain, 
The  little  house  became  a  coach  once  more, 
And,  like  Macheath,  "  took  to  the  road  "  again  ! 


fust  then,  by  Fortune's  whimsical  decree, 
The  ancient  woman  stooping  with  her  crupper 
Towards  sweet  home,  or  where  sweet  home  should  bCj 
Was  getting  up  some  household  herbs  for  supper ; 
Thoughtful  of  Cinderella  in  the  tale. 
And  quaintly  wondering  if  ma>j,ic  shifts 
Could  o'er  a  common  pumpkin  so  prevail. 
To  turn  it  to  a  coach  ;— wliat  pretty  t^ifts 
Might  come  of  cabbages  and  curly  kale  : 
Meanwhile  she  never  heard  her  old  man's  wail, 
Nor  turn'd,  till  home  had  turn'd  a  corner,  quite 
Gone  out  of  siglit  ! 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 

At  last,  conceive  her,  risinjj  from  the  ground, 
Weary  of  sitting  on  her  russet  clothing  ; 

And  looking  round 

Where  rest  was  to  be  found. 
There  was  no  house — no  villa  there — no  nothing  1 
No  house  ! 

The  change  was  quite  amazing  ; 
It  made  her  senses  stngger  for  a  minute. 
The  riddle's  explication  seem'd  to  harden  ; 
But  soon  her  superannuated  nous 
Explain'd  the  horrid  mystery  ; — and  raising 
Her  hand  to  heaven,  with  the  cabbage  in  it, 

On  which  she  meant  to  sup, — 
"Well !  this  is  Fairy  Work  !     I'll  bet  a  farden, 
Little  Prince  Silverwings  has  ketch'd  me  up, 
And  set  me  down  in  some  one  else's  jjarden  ! " 


137 


The  Spoiled  Child. 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


MY  Aunt  Shakerly  was  of  an  enormous  bulk.  I  have  not  don« 
justice  to  her  hugeness  in  my  sketch,  for  my  timid  pencil 
declined  to  hazard  a  sweep  at  her  real  dimensions. — There  is  a  vast- 
ness  in  the   outline,  of  even  moderate  proportions,  till  the  mass  is 


128  THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 

rounded  off  by  shadows,  that  makes  the  hand  hesitate,  and  apt  to 
stint  the  figure  of  its  proper  breadth  :  how,  then,  should  I  have  ven- 
tured to  trace,  hke  mapping  in  a  Continent,  the  surpassing  boundaries 
of  my  Aunt  Shakerly  ! 

What  a  visage  was  hers  ! — the  cheeks,  a  pair  of  hemispheres  : — her 
neck  Hterally  swallowed  up  by  a  supplementary  chin.  Her  arm, 
cased  in  a  tight  sleeve,  was  as  the  bglster, — her  body  like  the  feather 
bed  of  Ware.  The  waist,  which,  in  other  trunks,  is  an  isthmus,  was 
in  hers  only  the  middle  zone  of  a  continuous  tract  of  flesh  : — her  ankles 
overlapped  her  shoes. 

With  such  a  figure,  it  may  be  supposed  that  her  habits  were  seden- 
tary.— When  she  did  walk,  the  Tower  Quay,  for  the  sake  of  the  fresh 
river-breeze,  was  her  favourite  resort.  But  never,  in  all  her  waterside 
promenades,  was  she  hailed  by  the  uplifted  finger  of  the  Waterman. 
With  looks  purposely  averted  he  declmed,  tacitly,  such  a  Fairlopian 
Fair. — The  Hackney-conch  driver,  whilst  she  halted  over  against  him, 
mustering  up  all  her  scanty  puffings  for  an  exclamation,  drove  off  to 
the  nether  pavement,  and  pleaded  a  prior  call.  The  chairman,  in 
answer  to  her  signals — had  just  broken  his  poles. — Thus,  her  goings 
were  cramped  within  a  narrow  circle  :  many  thoroughfares,  besides, 
being  strange  to  her  and  inaccessible,  such  as  Thames  Street,  through 
the  narrow  pavements  ; — others,  like  the  Hill  of  Holborn, — from  their 
impracticable  steepness.  How  she  was  finally  to  master  a  more  serious 
ascension  (the  sensible  incumbrance  of  the  flesh  clinging  to  her  even 
in  her  spiritual  aspirations),  was  a  matter  of  her  serious  despondency 
• — a  picture  of  Jacob's  Ladder,  by  Sir  F.  Bourgeois,  confirming  her, 
that  the  celestial  staircase  was  without  a  landing. 

For  a  person  of  her  elephantine  proportions,  my  Aunt  was  of  a 
kindly  nature — for  I  confess  a  j^rejudice  against  such  Giantesses. 
She  was  cheerful,  and  eminently  charitable  to  the  poor, — although 
she  did  not  condescend  to  a  personal  visitation  of  their  very  limited 
abodes.  If  she  had  a  fault,  it  x'fas  in  her  conduct  tow-uds  children — 
not  spoiling  them  by  often  repeated  indulgences,  and  untimely  severi- 
ties, the  common  practice  of  bad  mothers  ; — it  was  by  a  shorter  course 
that  the  latent  and  hereditary  virtues  of  the  infant  Shakerly  were 
blasted  in  the  bud. 

Oh,  my  tender  cousin***!  (for  thou  wert  yet  unbaptized).  Oh! 
would  thou  had'st  been, — my  little  babe-cousin, — of  a  savager  mother 
born  ! — For  then,  having  thee  comfortably  swaddled,  upon  a  backboard, 
with  a  hole  in  it,  she  would  have  hung  thee  up,  out  of  harm's  way, 
above  the  mantel-shelf,  or  behind  the  kitchen  door — whereas,  thy 
parent  was  no  savage,  and  so,  having  her  hands  full  of  other  matters, 
she  laid  thee  down,  helpless,  upon  the  parlour  chair!  — 

In  the  meantime,  the  Herald  came. — Next  to  an  easy  seat,  my 
Aunt  dearly  loved  a  police  newspaper  ; — when  she  h  id  once  plunged 
i)«to  its  columns,  the  most  vital  question  obtained  from  her  only  a 
random  answer  ; — the  world  and  the  roasting-jack  stood  equally  stilL 
— So,  without  a  second  thought,  she  dropped  herself  on  the  nursing 
chair.  One  little  smothered  cry — my  cousin's  last  breath — found  its 
way  into  the  upper  air, — but  the  still  small  voice  of  the  reportex 
engrossed  the  maternal  ear. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  DEER.  129 

My  Aunt  never  skimmed  a  newspaper,  accordmg  to  some  people's 
practice.  She  was  as  solid  a  reader  as  a  sitter,  and  did  not  get  up, 
therefore,  till  she  had  gone  through  the  "Herald"  from  end  to  end. 
When  she  did  rise, — which  was  suddenly, — the  earth  quaked — the 
windows  rattled — the  ewers  splashed  over — the  crockery  fell  from  the 
shelf — and  the  cat  and  rats  ran  out  together,  as  they  are  said  to  do 
from  a  falling  house. 

"  Heyday  !"  said  my  uncle,  above-stairs,  as  he  staggered  from  the 
concussion — and,  with  the  usual  curiosity,  he  referred  to  his  pocket- 
book  for  the  Royal  Birthday.  But  the  almanac  not  accounting  for 
the  explosion,  he  ran  down  the  stairs,  at  the  heels  of  the  housemaid, 
and  there  lay  my  Aunt,  stretched  on  the  parlour-floor,  in  a  fit.  At  the 
very  first  glimpse,  he  explained  the  matter  to  his  own  satisfaction,  in 
three  words — 

"  Ah — the  apoplexy  ! " 

Now  the  housemaid  had  done  her  part  to  secure  him  against  this 
error,  by  holding  up  the  dead  child  ;  but  as  she  turned  the  body  edge- 
ways, he  did  not  perceive  it.     When  he  did  see  it but  I  must  draw 

a  curtain  over  the  parental  agony — 

«  •  •  *  • 

About  an  hour  aftw  the  catastrophe,  an  inquisitive  she-neighbour 
called  in,  and  asked  if  we  should  not  have  the  Cororer  to  sit  on  the 
body  :— but  my  uncle  replied,  "  There  was  no  need."~-"  But  in  cases, 
Mr  Shakerly,  where  the  death  is  not  natural."—"  M*  dear  Madam,* 
interrupted  my  uncle, "  it  was  a  natural  death  enoughi," 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  DEER, 

[from  an  old  MS.] 

Now  the  loud  Crye  is  up,  and  harke  I 
The  barkye  Trees  give  back  the  Bark ; 
The  House  Wife  heares  the  merrie  rout, 
And  runnes, — and  lets  the  beere  run  out, 
Leaving  her  Babes  to  weepe, — for  why  ? 
She  likes  to  heare  the  Deer  Dogges  crye, 
And  see  the  wild  Stag  how  he  stretches 
The  naturall  Buck-skin  of  his  Breeches, 
Running  hke  one  of  Human  kind 
Dogged  by  fleet  Bailiffes  close  behind — 
As  if  he  had  not  payde  his  Bill 
For  Ven'son,  or  was  owing  still 
For  his  two  Homes,  and  soe  did  get 
Over  his  Head  and  Ears  in  Debt ; — 
Wherefore  he  strives  to  paye  his  Waye 
With  his  long  Legges  the  while  he  maye  : — 
But  he  is  chased,  like  Silver  Dish, 
As  well  as  anye  Hart  [may]  wish. 

1 


130 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  DEER. 

Except  that  one  whose  Heart  doth  beat 
So  faste  it  hasteneth  his  Feet  ; — 
And  runninge  soe,  he  holdeth  Death, 
Four  feet  from  him, — till  his  Breath 
Faileth,  and  slacking  Pace  at  last, 
From  runninge  slow  he  standeth  faste, 
With  hornie  Bayonettes  at  baye 
To  baying  Dogges  around,  jind  they 
Pushing  him  sore,  he  pusheth  sore, 
And  goreth  them  that  seek  his  Gore, — 
Whatever  Dogge  his  Home  doth  rive 
Is  dead — as  sure  as  he's  alive  ! 
Soe  that  courageous  Hart  doth  fight 
With  Fate,  and  calleth  up  his  might, 
And  standeth  stout  that  he  maye  fall 
Bravelye,  and  be  avenged  of  ail, 
Nor  like  a  Craven  yield  his  Breath 
Under  the  Jawes  of  Dogges  and  Death  ! 


Master  Grahaii 


«3i 
DECEMBER  AND  MAY, 

**  Crabbed  Age  and  Youth  cannot  live  together." — Shakespbax^ 

Said  Nestor  to  his  pretty  wife,  quite  sorrowful  one  day, 
*'  Why,  dearest,  will  you  shed  in  pearls  those  lovely  eyes  away? 
You  ought  to  be  more  fortified." — "Ah,  brute,  be  quiet,  do  I 
I  know  I'm  not  so  fortyfied,  nor  fiftyfied,  as  you  ! 

"  Oh,  men  are  vile  deceivers  all,  as  I  have  ever  heard  ; 
You'd  die  for  me,  you  swore,  and  I — I  took  you  at  your  word. 
I  was  a  tradesman's  widow  then — a  pretty  change  I've  made; 
To  live  and  die  the  wife  of  one,  a  widower  by  trade  1" 

**  Come,  come,  my  dear,  these  flighty  airs  declare,  in  sober  truth, 
You  want  as  much  in  age,  indeed,  as  I  can  want  in  youth  ; 
Besides,  you  said  you  liked  old  men,  though  now  at  me  you  huff." 
"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "and  so  I  do — but  you're  not  old  enough  !* 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear,  let's  make  it  up,  and  have  a  quiet  hive  ; 
I'll  be  the  best  of  men, — I  mean, — I'll  be  the  best  alive  ! 
Your  grieving  so  will  kill  me,  for  it  cuts  me  to  the  core." 
**  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  telling  me — for  now  I'll  grieve  the  moiei  ' 


A    WINTER  NO  SEGA  K 

Oh,  wither'd  winter  Blossoms, 
Dowager-flowers, — the  December  vanity, 
In  antiquated  visages  and  bosoms.— 

What  are  ye  plann'd  for, 

Unless  to  stand  for 
Emblems,  and  peevish  morals  of  humanity? 

There  is  my  Quaker  Aunt, 
A  Paper-Flower, — with  a  formal  border 

No  breeze  could  e'er  disorder, 
Pouting  at  that  old  beau — the  Winter  Cherry, 

A  pucker'd  berry  ; 
And  Box,  like  a  tough-lived  annuitant,— 

Verdant  alway — 
From  quarter-day  even  to  quarter-day  ; 
And  poor  old  Honesty,  as  thin  as  want,— 

Well  named,  God  wot, 
Under  the  baptism  of  the  water-pot,— 
The  very  apparition  of  a  plant ! 

And  why 
Dost  hold  thy  head  so  high. 

Old  Winter-Daisy?— 
Because  thy  viriue  never  was  infirm, 

Howe'er  thy  stalk  be  crazy? 


132 


A   WINTER  NOSEGAY. 

That  never  wanton  fly,  or  blighting  worm, 
Made  holes  in  thy  most  perfect  indentation  ? 

'Tis  likely  that  sour  leaf, 

To  garden  thief, 
Forcepp'd  or  wing'd,  was  never  a  temptation  ; — 
Well, — still  uphold  thy  wintry  reputation  ; 
StilLshalt  thou  frown  upon  all  lovers'  trial : 
Ana  when,  like  Grecian  maids,  young  maids  of  ours 

Converse  with  flowers, 
Then  thou  shalt  be  the  token  of  denial. 

Away !  dull  weeds. 
Born  without  beneficial  use  or  needs  ! 
Fit  only  to  deck  out  cold  winding-sheets  ; 
And  then  not  for  the  milkmaid's  funeral-bloom, 

Or  fair  Fidele's  tomb 

To  tantalize, — vile  cheats  ! 
Some  prodigal  bee,  with  hope  of  after-sweets, 

Frigid,  and  rigid,  ' 

As  if  ye  never  knew 

One  drop  of  dew, 
Or  the  warm  sun  resplendent  ; 
Indifferent  of  culture  and  of  care, 
Giving  no  sweets  back  to  the  fostering  air. 
Churlishly  independent — 

I  hate  ye,  of  all  breeds  ; 
Yea,  all  that  live  so  selfishly — to  self, 
And  not  by  interchange  of  kindly  deeds — 
Hence  ! — from  my  shelf ! 


A  Winter  Nosegay. 


»33 


EQUESTRIAN  COURTSHIP. 

It  was  a  young  maiden  went  forth  to  ride. 
And  there  was  a  wooer  to  pace  -by  her  side ; 
His  horse  was  so  little,  and  hers  so  high, 
He  thought  his  Angel  was  up  in  the  sky. 

His  love  was  great,  though  his  wit  was  small  ; 
He  bade  her  ride  easy — and  that  was  all. 
The  very  horses  began  to  neigh, — 
Because  their  betters  had  nought  to  say. 

They  rode  by  elm,  and  they  rode  by  oak. 

They  rode  by  a  churchyard,  and  then  he  spoke  :  — 

**  My  pretty  maiden,  if  you'll  agree. 

You  shall  jdways  amble  through  life  with  me." 

The  damsel  answer'd  him  never  a  word. 

But  kick'd  the  grey  mare,  and  away  she  spurr'd. 

The  wooer  still  foUow'd  behind  the  jade, 

And  enjoy'd — like  a  wooer — the  dust  she  made. 

They  rode  through  moss,  and  they  rode  through  more,- 

The  gallant  behmd  and  the  lass  before  : — 

At  last  they  came  to  a  miry  place. 

And  there  the  sad  wooer  gave  up  the  chase. 

Quoth  he,  "  If  my  nag  was  better  to  ride, 

rd  follow  her  over  the  world  so  wide. 

Oh,  it  is  not  my  love  that  begins  to  fail, 

But  I've  lost  the  last  glimpse  of  the  grey  mare's  taill* 


1^4 


"  She  is  far  from  the  land 


*'SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND:' 


IT  has  been  my  fortune,  or  misfortune,  sometimes  to  witness  the 
distresses  of  females  upon  shipboard  ;— that  is,  in  such  fresh- 
victual  passages  as  to  Ramsgate — or  to  Leith.  How  they  can  con- 
template or  execute  those  longer  voyages,  beyond  Good  Hope's  Cape, 
— even  with  the  implied  inducements  of  matrimony, — is  one  of  my 
standard  wonders.  There  is  a  natural  shrinking — a  cat-like  antipathy, 
— to  water,  in  the  lady-constitution, — (as  the  false  Argonaut  well 
remembered  when  he  shook  off  Ariadne) — that  seems  to  forbid  such 
sea-adventures.  Betwixt  a  younger  daughter,  in  Hampshire  for 
example, — and  a  Judge's  son  of  Calcutta,  there  is,  apparently,  a  great 
gulf  fixed. 

How  have  I  felt,  and  shuddered,  for  a  timid,  shrinking,  anxious 
female,  full  of  tremblings  as  an  aspen,— about  to  set  her  first  foot  upon 
the  stage  ! — but  it  can  be  nothing  to  a  maiden's  debQt  on  the  deck  of 
an  East  Indiaman. 

Handkerchiefs  waving — not  in  welcome,  but  in  farewell;  crowded 
boxes — not  filled  with  living  Beauty  and  Fashion— but  departing 
luggage.  Not  the  mere  noisy  Gods  of  the  gallery  to  encounter, — 
but  those,  more  boisterous,  of  the  wind  and  wave.  And  then,  all 
before  her, — the  great  salt-water  Pit  ! 

As  I  write  this,  the  figure  of  Miss  Oliver  rises  up  before  me, — just 
as  she  looked  on  her  first  introduction,  by  the  *  Neptune,' to  the  Ocean. 
It  was  her  first  voyage, — and  she  made  sure  would  be  her  last.  Her 
storms  commenced  at  Gravesend, — her  sea  began  much  higher  up. 
She  had  quahns  at  Blackwall.  At  the  Nore,  she  came  to  themountain- 
billows  of  her  imagination  ;  for  however  the  ocean  may  disappoint  the 


"  SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND."  135 

expectation,  from  the  land, — on  shipboard,  to  the  uninitiated,  it  hafh 
all  its  terrors.  The  sailor's  capful  of  wind  was  to  her  a  North-wester. 
Every  splash  of  a  wave  shocked  her,  as  if  each  brought  its  torpedo. 
The  loose  cordage  did  not  tremble  and  thrill  more  to  the  wind  than 
her  nerves.  At  every  tack  of  the  vessel — on  all-fours,  for  she  would 
not  trust  to  her  own  feet  and  the  outstretched  hand  of  courtesy — she 
scrambled  up  to  the  higher  side.  Her  back  ached  with  straining 
against  the  bulwark,  to  preserve  her  own  and  the  ship's  perpendicular  : 
— her  eyes  glanced  right,  left,  above,  beneath,  before,  behind — with  all 
the  alacrity  of  alarm.  She  had  not  organs  enough  of  sight  or  hearing 
to  keep  watch  against  all  her  imagined  perils  :  her  ignorance  of  nautical 
matters,  in  the  meantime,  causing  her  to  mistnke  the  real  sea-dangers 
for  subjects  of  self-congratulation.  It  delighted  her  to  understand 
that  there  was  barely  three  fathoms  of  water  between  the  vessel  and 
the  ground  ; — her  notion  had  been  that  the  whole  sea  was  bottomless. 
When  the  ship  struck  upon  a  sand,  and  was  left  there  high  and  dry 
by  the  tide,  her  pleasure  was,  of  course,  complete.  "  We  could  walk 
about,"  she  said,  "and  pick  up  shells."  I  believe,  she  would  have 
been  as  well  contented  if  our  '  Neptune  '  had  been  pedestalled  upon  a 
rock, — deep  water  and  sea-room  were  the  only  subjects  of  her  dread. 
When  the  vessel,  therefore,  got  afloat  again,  the  old  terrors  of  the 
landswoman  returned  upon  her  with  the  former  force.  All  possible 
marine  diflRculties  and  disasters  were  huddled,  like  an  auction  medley 
in  one  lot,  into  her  apprehension  : — 

Cables  entangling  her, 
Shipspars  for  mangling  her. 
Ropes  sure  of  strangling  her, 
Blocks  over-dangling  her. 
Tiller  to  batter  her. 
Topmast  to  shatter  her. 
Tobacco  to  spatter  her ; 
Boreas  blustering. 
Boatswain  quite  flustering, 
Thunder-clouds  mustering 
To  blast  her  with  sulphur — 
If  the  deep  don't  engulf  her  J 
Sometimes  fear's  scrutiny 
Pries  out  a  mutiny. 
Sniffs  conflagration. 
Or  hints  at  starvation:^  ^ 

All  the  sea-dangers. 
Buccaneers,  rangers. 
Pirates  and  Sallee-men, 
Algerine  galleymen, 
Tornadoes  and  typhons, 
And  horrible  syphons, 
And  submarine  travels 
Through  roaring  sea-navels  \ 
Everything  wrong  enough, 
Long-boat  not  long  enough 
Vessel  not  strong  enough  ; 


'36 


•SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

Pitch  mnrring  frippery, 
The  deck  very  shppery, 
And  the  cabin— built  sloping, 
The  Captain  a-toping, 
And  the  Mate  a  blasphemer, 
That  names  his  Redeemer, — 
With  inward  uneasiness  ; 
The  cook  known  by  grensiness, 
The  victuals  beslubber'd, 
Her  bed — in  a  cupboard  ; 
Things  of  str.mge  christening, 
Snatch'd  in  her  listening, 
Blue  lights  and  red  lights 
And  mention  of  dead-lights, 
And  shrouds  made  a  theme  of — 
Things  horrid  to  dream  of, — 
And  buoys  in  the  water 
To  fear  all  exhort  her  ; 


Come  o'er  the  sea." 


Her  friend  no  Leander, 
Herself  no  sea-gander. 
And  ne'er  a  cork  jacket 
On  board  of  the  packet ; 
The  breeze  still  a  stiffening, 
The  trumpet  quite  deafening  ; 
Thoughts  of  repentance, 
And  doomsday  and  sentence  ; 
Everything  sinister, 
Not  a  church  minister, — 
Pilot  a  blunderer, 
Coral  reefs  under  her, 
Ready  to  sunder  her  ; 
Trunks  tipsy-topsy, 
The  ship  in  a  dropsy  ; 


FANCIES  ON  A   TEA-CUP.  I37 

Waves  oversurging  her, 
Syrens  a-dirgeing  her  ; 
Sharks  all  expecting  her, 
Sword-fish  dissecting  her, 
Crabs  with  their  hand-vices 
Punishing  land  vices ; 
Sea-dogs  and  unicorns, 
Things  with  no  puny  horns, 
Mermen  carnivorous — 
"  Good  Lord  deliver  us  ! " 

The  rest  of  the  vogage  was  occupied, — excepting  one  bright  interval, 
—with  the  sea-malady-  and  sea-horrors.  We  were  off  Flamborough 
Head.  A  heavy  swell,  the  consequence  of  some  recent  storm  to  the 
eastward,  was  rolling  right  before  the  wind  upon  the  land  : — and  once 
under  the  shadow  of  the  bluff  promontory,  we  should  lose  all  the 
advantage  of  a  saving  westerly  breeze.  Even  the  seamen  looked 
anxious  :  but  the  passengers  (save  one)  were  in  despair.  They  were 
already  bones  of  contention,  in  their  own  misgivings,  to  the  myriads 
of  cormorants  and  waterfowl  inhabiting  that  stupendous  cliff.  Miss 
Oliver  alone  was  sanguine  : — she  was  all  nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed 
smiles ; — her  cheeriness  increased  in  proportion  with  our  dreariness- 
Even  the  dismal  pitching  of  the  vessel  could  not  disturb  her  unseason- 
able levity  ; — it  was  like  a  lightening  before  death — but,  at  length,  the 
mystery  was  explained.  She  had  springs  of  comfort  that  we  knew  not 
of.  Not  brandy, — for  that  we  shared  in  common  ;  nor  supplications, — 
for  those  we  had  all  applied  to ;  but  her  ears,  being  jealously  vigilant 
of  whatever  passed  between  the  mariners,  she  had  overheard  from  the 
captain — and  it  had  all  the  sound  to  her  of  a  comfortable  promise — 
that  "  if  the  wind  held,  we  should  certainly  go  on  shore" 


FANCIES  ON  A  TEA-CUP. 

I  LOVE  to  pore  upon  old  china,  and  to  speculate,  from  the  images, 
on  Cathay.  I  can  fancy  that  the  Chinese  manners  betray  them- 
selves, like  the  drunkard's,  in  their  cups. 

How  quaintly  pranked  and  patterned  is  their  vessel  ! — exquisitely 
outlandish,  yet  not  barbarian.  How  daintily  transparent  !  It  should 
be  no  vulgar  earth  that  produces  that  superlative  ware,  nor  does  it  so 
seem  in  the  enamelled  landscape. 

There  are  beautiful  birds  ;  there,  rich  flowers  and  gorgeous  butter- 
flies,— and  a  delicate  clime,  if  we  may  credit  the  porcelain.  There  be 
also  horrible  monsters,  dragons,  with  us  obsolete,  and  reckoned  fabu- 
lous ;  the  main  breed,  doubtless,  having  followed  Fohi  (our  Noah)  in, 
his  wanderings  thither  from  the  Mount  Ararat.  But  how  does  that 
impeach  the  loveliness  of  Cathay  ?  There  are  such  creatures  even  in 
Fairyland. 


«38 


FANCIES  ON  A   TEA-CUP. 


I  long  often  to  loiter  in  those  romantic  Paradises— studded  with 
pretty  temples— holiday  pleasure  grounds — the  true  Tea-Gardens.  I 
like  those  meandering  waters,  and  the  abounding  little  islands. 

And  here  is  a  Chinese  nursemaid,  Ho-Fi,  chiding  a  fretful  little 
Pekin  child.  The  urchin  hath  just  such  another  toy,  at  the  end  of  a 
string:,  as  might  be  purchased  at  our  own  Mr  Dunnett's.     It  argues  an 


Pere  la  Chaise. 

advanced  state  of  civilisation  where  the  children  have  many  play- 
things ;  and  the  Chinese  infants,  witness  their  flying-fishes  and  whirli- 
gigs, sold  by  the  stray  natives  about  our  streets,  are  far  gone  in  such 
juvenile  luxuries. 

But  here  is  a  better  token. — The  Chinese  are  a  polite  people  ;  for 
they  do  not  make  household,  much  less  husbandry,  drudges  of  their 
wives.  You  may  read  the  women's  fortune  in  their  tea-cups.  In  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  the  female  is  busy  only  in  the  ladylike  toils  of  the 
toilette.  Lo  !  here,  how  s.^dulouslv  the  blooming  Hy'-son  is  pencilling 
the  mortal  arches,  and  curving  the  cross-bows  of  her  eyebrows.  A 
musical  instrument,  her  second. iry  engagement,  is  at  her  almost  invi- 
sible feet.  Are  such  little  extremities  "likely  to  be  tasked  with  laborious 
offices  1  Marry,  in  kicking  they  must  be  ludicrously  impotent  ;  but 
then  she  hath  a  formidable  growth  of  nails. 

By  her  side,  the  obsequious  Hum  is  pouring  his  soft  flatteries  into 
her  ear.  When  she  walketh  abroad  (here  it  is  on  another  sample),  he 
shadeth  her  at  two  miles  off  with  his  umbrella.  It  is  like  an  allegory 
of  love  triumphing  over  space.  The  lady  is  walking  upon  one  of 
those  frequent  petty  islets,  on  a  plain,  as  if  of  porcelain,  without  any 
herbage,  only  a  solitary  flower  springs  up,  seemingly  by  enchantment, 
at  her  fairylike  foot.     The  watery  space  between  the  lovers  is  aptly 


THE  STAG-EYED  LADY.  139 

left  as  a  blank,  excepting  her  adorable  shadow,  which  is  tending 

towards  her  slave. 

How  reverentially  is  yon  urchin  presenting  his  flowers  to  the  Grey« 
beard  !  So  honourably  is  age  considered  in  China  !  There  would 
be  some  sense  there  in  birthday  celebrations. 

Here,  in  another  compartment,  is  a  solitary  scholar,  apparently 
studying  the  elaborate  didactics  of  Con-Fuse- Ye. 

The  Chinese  have,  verily,  the  advantage  of  us  upon  earthenware  1 
They  trace  themselves  as  lovers,  contemplatists,  philosophers  ;— 
whereas,  to  judge  from  our  jugs  and  mugs,  we  are  nothing  but  sheep- 
bh  piping  shepherds  and  fox-hunters. 


THE  STAG-EYED  LADY. 

K  MOORISH  TALE.* 
Scheherazade  immediately  began  the  following  story  :— 

Ali  Ben  Ali  (did  you  never  read 

His  wondrous  acts  that  chronicles  relate,— 

How  there  was  one  in  pity  might  exceed 
The  sack  of  Troy  ?) — magnificent  he  sate 

Upon  the  throne  of  greatness — great  indeed  ! 
For  those  that  he  had  under  him  were  great— 

The  horse  he  rode  on,  shod  with  silver  nails, 

Was  a  Bashaw — Bashaws  have  horses'  tails. 

Ali  was  cruel — a  most  cruel  one  ! 

*Tis  rumour'd  he  had  strangled  his  own  mother—' 
Howbeit  such  deeds  of  darkness  he  had  done, 

'Tis  thought  he  would  have  slain  his  elder  brother 
And  sister  too — but  happily  that  none 

Did  live  within  har»i's  length  of  one  another, 
Else  he  had  sent  the  Sun  in  all  its  blnze 
To  endless  night,  and  shorten'd  the  Moon's  days. 

Despotic  power,  that  mars  a  weak  man's  wit. 

And  makes  a  bad  man  absolutely  bad, 
Made  AH  wicked  to  a  fault  : — 'tis  fit 

Monarchs  should  have  some  check-strings  ;  but  he  had 
No  curb  upon  his  will — no,  not  a  bit — 

Wherefore  he  did  not  reign  well — and  full  glad 
His  slaves  had  been  to  hang  him — but  they  falter'd. 
And  let  him  live  unhang'd— and  still  unalter'd, 

*  London  Magazine,  1822,  vol.  v.  p.  422. 


t40  THE  STAG-EYED  LADY. 

Until  he  got  a  sage  bush  of  a  beard, 

Wherein  an  Attic  owl  might  roost — a  trail 

Of  bristly  hair — that,  honour'd  and  unshear'd, 
Grew  downward  like  old  women  and  cow's  tail. 

Being  a  sign  of  age — some  grey  appear'd, 

Mingling  with  duskier  brown  its  warnings  pale  ; 

But  yet  not  so  poetic  as  when  Time 

Comes  like  Jack  Frost,  and  whitens  it  in  rime. 

Ben  AH  took  the  hint,  and  much  did  vex 

His  royal  bosom  that  he  had  no  son, 
No  living  child  of  the  more  noble  sex. 

To  stand  in  his  Morocco  shoes — not  one 
To  make  a  negro-pollard — or  tread  necks 

When  he  was  gone— doom'd,  when  his  days  were  don^ 
To  leave  the  very  city  of  his  fame 
Without  an  Ali  to  keep  up  his  name. 

Therefore  he  chose  a  lady  for  his  love. 

Singling  from  out  the  herd  one  stag-eyed  dear ; 

So  call'd,  because  her  lustrous  eyes,  above 
All  eyes,  were  dark,  and  timorous,  and  clear ; 

Then,  through  his  Muftis  piously  he  strove, 

And  drumm'd  with  proxy-prayers  Mohammed's  ear. 

Knowing  a  boy  for  certain  must  come  of  it, 

Or  else  he  was  not  praying  to  his  Profit. 

Beer  will  grow  tnothery,  and  ladies  fair 

Will  grow  like  beer  ;  so  did  that  stag-eyed  dame  : 

Ben  Ali  hoping  for  a  son  and  heir, 

Buoy'd  up  his  hopes,  and  even  chose  a  name 

Of  mighty  hero  that  his  child  sliould  bear  ; 
He  made  so  certain  ere  his  chicken  came  : 

But  oh  !  all  worldly  wit  is  little  worth, 

Nor  knoweth  what  to-morrow  will  bring  forth  I 

To-morrow  came,  and  with  to-morrow's  sun 
A  little  daughter  to  this  world  of  sins, — 

//m-fortunes  never  come  alone — so  one 
Brought  on  another,  like  a  pair  of  twins  ! 

Twins  !  female  twins  ! — it  was  enough  to  stun 
Their  little  wits  and  scare  them  from  their  skins 

To  hear  their  father  stamp,  and  curse  and  swear, 

Pulling  his  beard  because  he  had  no  heir. 

Then  strove  their  stng-eyed  mother  to  calm  down 
This  his  paternal  ra.L^e,  and  thus  addrest  : 

**0  !  Most  Serene  !  why  dost  thou  stamp  and  frown, 
And  box  the  compass  of  thy  royal  chest  ? 


THE  STAG-EYED  LADY.  14I 

Ah  !  thou  wih  mar  that  portly  trunk,  I  own 

I  love  to  gaze  on  ! — Pr'\  thee,  thou  hadst  best 
Pocket  thy  fists.     Nay,  love,  if  you  so  thin 
Your  beard,  you'll  want  a  wig  upon  your  chin  !  * 

But  not  her  words,  nor  e'en  her  tears,  could  slack 
The  quicklime  of  his  rnge,  that  hotter  grew  ; 

He  call'd  his  slaves  to  bring  an  ample  sack, 
Wherein  a  woman  might  h^  poked — a  few 

Dark  <;rimly  men  felt  pity  and  look'd  black 
At  this  sad  order  ;  but  their  slaveships  knew, 

When  any  dared  demur,  his  sword  so  bending 

Cut  off  the  "  head  and  front  of  their  offending." 

For  Ali  had  a  sword,  much  like  himself, 

A  crooked  blade,  guilty  of  human  gore — 
The  trophies  it  had  lopp'd  from  many  an  elf 

Were  stuck  at  his  /;^«(^-quarters  by  the  score— 
Nor  yet  in  peace  he  laid  it  on  the  shelf. 

But  jested  with  it,  and  his  wit  cut  sore  ; 
So  that  (as  they  of  Public  Houses  speak) 
He  often  did  his  dozen  butts  a  week. 

Therefore  his  slaves,  with  most  obedient  fear, 

Came  with  the  sack  the  lady  to  enclose  ; 
In  vain  from  her  stag-eyes  "the  big  round  tears 

Coursed  one  another  down  her  innocent  nose  ;* 
In  vain  her  tongue  wept  sorrow  in  their  ears ; 

Though  there  were  some  felt  willing  to  oppose, 
Yet  when  their  heads  came  in  their  heads,  that  minute, 
Though  'twas  a  piteous  case,  they  put  her  in  it. 

And  when  the  sack  was  tied,  some  two  or  three 
Of  these  black  undertakers  slowly  brought  her 

To  a  kind  of  Moorish  Serpentine  ;  for  she 

Was  doom'd  to  have  a  winding-sheet  of  water. 

Then  farewell,  earth — farewell  to  the  green  tree — 
Farewell,  the  sun — the  moon — each  little  daughter  ! 

She's  shot  from  oft  the  shoulders  of  a  black, 

Like  a  bag  of  Wall's-End  from  a  coalman's  back. 

The  waters  oped,  and  the  wide  sack  full-fill'd. 

All  that  the  waters  oped,  as  down  it  fell ; 
Then  closed  the  wave,  and  then  the  surface  rill'd 

A  ring  above  her,  like  a  water  knell ; 
A  moment  more,  and  all  its  face  was  still'd, 

And  not  a  guilty  heave  was  left  to  tell 
That  underneath  its  calm  and  blue  transparence 
A  dame  lay  drowned  in  her  sack,  like  Clarence. 


14^  THE  STAG-EYED  LADY.  \ 

But  Heaven  beheld,  and  awful  witness  bore ; 

The  moon  in  black  eclipse  deceased  that  night.  •       ' 

Like  Desdemona  smother'd  by  the  Moor  ; 

The  lady's  natal  star  with  pale  affright  ! 

Fainted  and  fell — and  what  were  stars  before,  j 

Turn'd  comets  as  the  tale  was  brought  to  light ; 
And  all  look'd  downward  on  the  fatal  wave,  . ; 

And  made  their  own  reflections  on  her  grave. 

Next  night,  a  head — a  little  lady  head,  " 

Push'd  through  the  waters  a  most  glassy  face^  ; 

With  weedy  tresses,  thrown  apart  and  spread,  i 
Comb'd  by  live  ivory,  to  show  the  space                                   <  \ 

Of  a  pale  forehead,  and  two  eyes  that  shed  \ 

A  soft  blue  mist,  breathing  a  bloomy  grace  : 

Over  their  sleepy  lids — and  so  she  raised 

Her  aquaWno.  nose  above  the  stream,  and  gazed. 

She  oped  her  lips — lips  of  a  gentle  blush,  ) 

So  pale,  it  seem'd  near  drowned  to  a  white, — 

She  oped  her  lips,  and  forth  there  sprang  a  gush 
Of  music  bubbling  through  the  surface  light ; 

The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  breezes  hush 
To  listen  to  the  air — and  through  the  night 

There  come  these  words  of  a  most  plaintive  dittj,  ; 

Sobbing  as  would  break  all  hearts  with  pity  : —  - 


THE  WATER-PERl'S  SONG. 

Farewell,  farewell,  to  my  mother's  own  daughter. 
The  child  that  she  wei-nursed  is  lapp'd  in  the  ware 

The  Mussu/ma.n  coming  to  fish  in  this  water, 
Adds  a  tear  to  the  flood  that  weeps  over  her  grave. 

This  sack  is  her  coffin,  this  water's  her  bier, 
This  greyish  6ai/i  cloak  is  her  funeral  pall ; 

And,  stranger,  O  stranger  !  this  song  that  you  hear 
Is  her  epitaph,  elegy,  dirges,  and  all  ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  to  the  child  of  Al  Hassan, 

My  mother's  own  daughter — the  last  of  her  tace — 

She's  a  corpse,  the  poor  body  !  and  lies  in  this  basin 
And  sleeps  in  the  water  that  washes  her  face. 


143 


"  My  banks  they  arc  furiiished." 


WALTON  REDIVIVUS. 


A    NEW-RIVER   ECLOGUE. 

"  My  old  New  River  has  presented  no  extraordinary  novelties  lately.  But 
there  Hope  sits,  day  after  day,  speculating  on  traditionary  gudgeons.  I 
think  she  hath  taken  the  Fisheries.  I  now  know  the  reasons  why  our 
forefathers  were  denominated  East  and  West  Angles.  Yet  is  there  no 
lack  of  spawn,  for  I  wash  my  hands  in  fishets  that  come  through  the 
pump,  every  morning,  thick  as  motelings — little  things  that  perish 
untimely,  and  never  taste  the  brook." 

— From  a  Letter  of  C.  Lamb, 

[Piscator  is  fishing,  near  the  Sir  Hugh  Middleton's  Head,  without  either  basket 
or  can.     Viator  cometh  up  to  him,  with  an  angling  rod  and  a  bottle.] 

Via.  /'~^  OOD  morrow,  Master  Piscator.     Is  there  any  sport  afloat  ? 

v_J     Pi's.  I  have  not  been  here  time  enough  to  answer  for  it. 
It  is  barely  two  hours  agone  since  I  put  in. 

Via.  The  fishes  are  shyer  in  this  stream  than  in  any  water  that  I 
know. 

Pis.  I  have  fished  here  a  whole  Whitsuntide  through  without  a 
nibble.  But  then  the  weather  was  not  so  excellent  as  to-day.  This 
nice  shower  w  ill  set  the  gudgeons  all  agape. 

Via.  I  am  impatient  to  begin. 


144  WALTON  REDIVIVUS. 

Pis.  Do  you  fish  with  gut  ? 

Via.  No — I  bait  with  gentles. 

Pis.  It  is  a  good  taking  bait :  though  my  question  referred  to  the 
nature  of  your  hne.  Let  me  see  your  tackle.  Why  this  is  no  line, 
but  a  ship's  cable.  It  is  six-twist.  •  There  is  nothing  in  this  water  but 
you  may  pull  out  with  a  single  hair. 

Via.  What !  are  there  no  dace,  nor  perch  ? 

Pis.  I  doubt  not  but  there  have  been  such  fish  here  in  former  ages. 
But  now-a-days  there  is  nothing  of  that  size.  They  are  gone  extinct, 
like  the  mammoths. 

Via.  There  was  always  such  a  fishing  at  'em.  Where  there  was  one 
Angler  in  former  times,  there  is  now  a  hundred. 

Pis.  A  murrain  on  'em  ! — A  New-River  fish  now-a-days  cannot  take 
his  common  swimming  exercise  without  hitching  on  a  hook. 

Via.  It  is  the  natural  course  of  things  for  man's  populousness  to 
terminate  other  breeds.  As  the  proverb  says,  "  The  more  Scotchmen 
the  fewer  herrings."  It  is  curious  to  consider  the  family  of  whales 
growing  thinner  according  to  the  propagation  of  parish  lamps. 

Pis.  Ay,  and,  withal,  how  the  race  of  man,  who  is  a  terrestrial 
animal,  should  have  been  in  the  greatest  jeopardy  of  extinction  by  the 
element  of  water  ;  whereas  the  whales,  living  in  the  ocean,  are  most 
liable  to  be  burnt  out. 

Via.  It  is  a  pleasant  speculation.  But  how  is  this  ? — I  thought  to 
have  brought  my  gentles  comfortably  in  an  old  snuff-box,  and  they  are 
all  stark  dead  ! 

Pis.  The  odour  hath  killed  them.  There  is  nothing  more  mortal 
than  tobacco  to  all  kinds  of  vermin.  Wherefore,  a  new  box  will  be 
indispensable,  though,  for  my  own  practice,  I  prefer  my  waistcoat 
pockets  for  their  carriage.  Pray  mark  this  : — and  in  the  meantime  I 
will  lend  you  some  worms. 

Via.  I  am  much  beholden  :  and  when  you  come  to  Long  Acre,  I 
will  faithfully  repay  you.  But,  look  you,  my  tackle  is  still  amiss.  My 
float  will  not  swim. 

Pis.  It  is  no  miracle — for  here  is  at  least  a  good  ounce  of  swan-shots 
upon  your  line.     It  is  over-charged  with  lead. 

Via.  I  confess,  I  am  only  used  to  killing  sparrows,  and  such  small 
fowls,  out  of  the  back-casement.  But  my  ignorance  shall  make  me 
the  more  thankful  for  your  help  and  instruction. 

Pis.  There !  the  fault  is  amended.  And  now,  observe, — you  must 
watch  your  cork  very  narrowly,  without  even  an  eye-wink  another 
way  ; — for,  otherwise,  you  may  overlook  the  only  nibble  throughout 
the  day.        , 

Via.  I  have  a  bite  already  ! — my  float  is  going  up  and  down  like  a 
ship  at  sea. 

Pis.  No.  It  is  only  that  house-maid  dipping  in  her  bucket,  which 
causes  the  agitation  you  perceive.  'Tis  a  shame  so  to  interrupt  the 
honest  Angler's  diversion.  It  would  be  but  a  judgment  of  God,  now, 
if  the  jade  should  fall  in  ! 

Via.  But  1  would  have  her  only  drowned  for  some  brief  twenty 
minutes  or  so — and  then  restored  again  by  the  surgeons.  And  yet  I 
have  doubts  of  the  lawfulness  of  that  dragging  of  souls  back  again| 


WALTON  REDIVIVUS. 


145 


thnt  have  taken  their  formal  leaves.  In  my  conscience,  it  seems  like 
flyinij  ai^ainst  tlie  laws  of  predestination. 

Pis.  It  is  a  doubtful  point  ;— for,  on  the  other  hand,  I  have  heard 
of  some  that  were  revived  into  life  by  the  doctors,  and  came  afterwards 
to  be  hanged. 

Via.  Marry  !  'tis  pity  such  knaves'  lungs  were  ever  puffd  up  again! 
It  was  good  toljacCD-smoke  ill-'.\asted  !  Oh,  how  pleasant,  now,  is 
this  angling,  which  furnishes  us  with  matter  for  such  agreeable  dis- 
course !  Surely,  it  is  well  called  a  contemplative  recreation,  for  I  never 
had  half  so  many  thoughts  in  my  head  before ! 

Pis.  I  am  glad  you  relish  it  so  well. 


Piscator. 


Via.  I  will  take  a  summer  lodging  hereabouts,  to  be  near  the  stream. 
How  pleasant  i3  this  solitude  !  There  are  but  fourteen  a-fishing  here  : 
^and  of  those  but  few  men. 

Pis.  And  we  shall  be  still  more  lonely  on  the  other  side  of  the  City 
Road. — Come,  let's  across.  Nay,  we'll  put  in  our  lines  lower  down. 
There  was  a  butcher's  wife  dragged  for,  at  this  bridge,  in  the  last 
week. 

Via.  Have  you,  indeed,  any  qualms  of  that  kind  ? 

Pis.  No — but,  here.ibouts,  'tis  likely  the  gudgeons  will  be  gorged. 
Now,  we  are  far  enough.  Yonder  is  the  row  of  Coiebroke.  What  a 
balmy  wholesome  gust  is  blowing  over  to  us  from  the  cow-lair  ! 


14*  V/ALTON  REDIVIVUS. 

Via.  For  my  part,  I  smell  nothing  but  dead  kittens— for  here  !!es  a 
whole  brood  in  soak.  Would  you  believe  it,— to  my  phantasy,  the 
nine  davs'  blindness  of  these  creatures  smicks  somewhat  of  a  type  of 
the  human  pre-existence.  Mtthinks  I  have  had  m\self  buch  a  myste- 
rious being  before  I  beheld  the  light.  My  dreams  hint  at  it.  A  sort 
of  world  beiore  eyesi-ht. 

^  Pis.  I  have  some  dim  sympathy  with  your  meaning.  At  the  Crea.- 
tion,  there  was  such  a  kind  of  blind-man's-buff  work.  The  atoms 
jostled  together,  before  there  was  a  revealmg  sun.  But  are  we  not 
fishing  too  deep  t 

Via.  I  am  afeard  on't  !  Would  we  had  a  plummet !  We  shall  catch 
weeds. 

Pis.  It  would  be  well  to  fish  thus  at  the  bottom,  if  we  were  fishing 
for  flounders  in  the  sea.  But  tiiere,  you  must  have  forty  fathom,  or 
so,  of  stout  line  ;  and  then,  with  your  fish  at  tlie  end,  it  will  be  the 
boy's  old  pastime  carried  into  another  element.  I  assure  you,  'tis  hke 
swimming  a  kite  ! 

Via.  It  should  be  pretty  sport— but  hush  !  My  cork  has  just  made 
a  bob.     It  is  diving  under  the  water  !— Holla  !— I  have  catch'd  a  fish ! 

Pis.  Is  it  a  great  one  ? 

Via.  Purely,  a  huge  one  !     Shall  I  put  it  into  the  bottle  ? 

Pis.  It  will  be  well,— and  let  there  be  a  good  measure  of  water,  too, 
lest  he  scorch  against  the  glass. 

Via.   How  slippery  and  shining  it  is  ! — Ah,  he  is  gone  ! 

Pis.  You  are  not  used  to  the  handling  of  a  New-River  fish  ;— and, 
indeed,  very  few  be.     But  hath  he  altojether  escaped  ? 

Via.  No  ;  I  have  his  chin  here,  which  1  was  obliged  to  tear  off,  to 
get  away  my  hook. 

Pis.  Well,  let  him  go; — it  would  be  labour  wasted  to  seek  for  him 
amongst  this  rank  herbage.     'Tis  the  commonest  of  Anglers'  cros<=es. 

Via.  I  am  comt'orted  to  consider  he  did  not  fall  into  the  water  again, 
as  he  was  without  a  mouth,  and  might  have  pmed  for  years.  Do'yoii 
think  there  is  any  cruelty  in  our  art.'' 

Pis.  As  for  other  methods  of  taking  fish,  I  cannot  say  :  but  I  think 
none  in  the  hooking  of  thein— For,  to  look  at  the  gills  of  a  fish,  with 
those  manifold  red  leaves,  like  a  housewife's  needle-book,  they  are 
admirably  adapted  to  our  purpose  ;  and  manifestly  intended  by  Nature 
to  stick  our  steel  in. 

Via.  I  am  glad  to  have  the  question  so  comfortably  resolved, — for, 
in  truth,  I  have  had  some  misgivin_t;s.  Now,  look  how  dark  the  water 
grows  I     There  is  another  shower  towards. 

Pis.  Let  it  come  down,  and  welcome.  I  have  only  my  working-day 
clothes  on.  Sunday  coats  spoil  holidays.  Let  everything  hang  loose, 
and  time  too  will  sit  easy. 

Via.  I  like  your  philosophy.  In  this  world,  we  are  the  fools  of 
restraint.     We  starch  our  rufl's  till  thev  tut  us  under  the  e.ir. 

Pis.  How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  discuss  these  sentiinents  over  a 
tankard  of  ale  !  I  have  a  simple  bashfulness  against  going  into  a 
public  tavern,  but  I  think  we  could  dodge  into  the  Castle,  without 
being  much  seen. 

Via.  And  I  have  a  sort  of  shuddering  about  me,  that  is  wiUing  to 


" L 0 VE  ME,  LOVE  MV  DOG. " 


U7 


go  more  frankly  in.  Let  us  put  up,  then.  By  my  halidom  !  here  is 
a  little  dead  fish  hanging  at  my  hoolc  :— and  yet  I  never  felt  him  bite. 

Fts.  'Tis  only  a  little  week-old  gudgeon,  and  he  had  not  strength 
enough  to  stir  the  curk.  However,  we  may  say  boldly  that  we  have 
caught  a  fish. 

Via.  Nav,  I  have  another  here  in  my  bottle.  He  was  sleeping  on 
his  back  ;it  the  top  of  the  w.,ter,  and  I  got  him  out  nimbly  with  the 
hollow  of  my  hand. 

Pis.  We  have  caught  a  brace  then  ; — besides  the  great  one  that  was 
lost  amongst  the  grass.  I  am  glad  on't ;  for  we  can  bestow  them  upon 
some  poor  hungry  person  in  our  way  home.  It  is  passable  good  sport 
for  the  place. 

Via.  I  am  satisfied  it  must  be  called  so.  But  the  next  time  I  come 
hither,  I  shall  bring  a  reel  with  me,  and  a  re;idy-made  minnow,  for  I 
am  certain  there  must  be  some  marvellous  huge  pikes  here  ;  they 
always  make  a  scarcity  of  other  fish.  However,  I  have  been  bravely 
entertained,  and,  at  the  first  holiday,  I  will  come  to  it  again. 


'  Love  me,  love  my  dog." 


"LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG:' 


SEEMS,  at  first  sight,  nn  unreasonable  demand.  May  I  profess  no 
tenderness  for  Belinda  without  vowing  an  attachment  to  Shock  ? 
Must  I  feel  an  equal  warmth  towards  my  bosom  friend  and  his  grey- 
hound ?     Some  country  gentlemen  keep  a  pack  of  dogs.     Am  I  ex- 


148 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG." 


pected  to  divide  my  personal  regard  for  my  Lord  D amongst  all  his 

celebr.it  d  fox-hounds  ? 

I  m.iy  be  constitutionally  averse  to  the  whole  cnnine  species  :  I  have 
been  bitten,  perhaps,  in  my  infancy  by  a  mastiff,  or  pinned  by  a  bull- 
dog. There  are  harrowing  tales  on  record  of  hydrophobia,  of  human 
bari<ings,  and  inhuman  smotherings  :  a  dog  may  be  my  bujbear. 
Ag.iin,  there  are  diffei-ences  in  taste.  One  man  niav  like  to  have  his 
hand  licked  all  over  by  a  grattful  spaniel;  but  I  would  not  have  viy 
extremity  served  so — even  by  the  human  tongue. 

But  the  proverb,  so  arrogant  and  absolute  in  spirit,  becomes 
harmless  in  its  common  application.  The  terms  are  seldom  enforced, 
except  by  persons  that  a  gentleman  is  not  likely  to  embrace  in  his 
affection — rat-catchers,  butchers,  andbuU-bailers,  tinkers  and  blind 


"  Poor-tray  Chiirinant.' 


mendicants,  beldames  and  witches.  A  slaughterman's  tulip-eared 
puppy  is  as  liable  to  engage  one's  liking  as  his  chuckle-headed  master. 
When  a  courtier  makes  friends  with  a  drover,  he  will  not  be  likely  to 
object  to  a  sheep-dog  as  a  third  party  in  the  alliance. 

"Love  me,"  says  ^lother  Sawyer,  "love  my  dog." 

Who  careth  to  dote  on  either  a  witch  or  her  familiar  ?  The  proverb 
thus  loses  half  of  its  oppression  :  in  other  cases,  it  may  become  a 
pleasant  fiction,  an  agreeable  convention.  I  forget  what  pretty  Coun- 
tess it  was  who  made  a  confession  of  her  tenderness  for  a  certain  sea- 
captain  by  her  abundant  caresses  of  his  Esquimaux  wolf-dog.  The 
shame  of  the  avowal  became  milder  (as  the  virulence  of  the  small-pox 


"LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOCr  149 

is  abated  after  passing  through  the  constitution  of  a  cow),  by  its  trans- 
mission through  the  animal. 

In  hke  manner,  a  formal  young  Quaker  and  Quakeress,  perfec* 
stranj^ers  to  each  other,  and  who  mlL^^ht  otherwise  have  sat  mum- 
chance  together  for  many  hours,  fell  suddenly  to  romping,  merely 
through  the  maiden's  playfulness  with  Obadiah's  terrier.  The  dog 
broke  the  ice  of  formality,  and,  as  a  third  party,  took  off  the  painful 
awkwardness  of  self-introduction. 

Sir  Ulic  Mackilligut,  when  he  wished  to  break  handsomely  with 
Mistress  Tabitha  Bramble,  kicked  her  cur.  The  dog  broke  the  force 
of  the  affront,  and  the  knight's  gallantry  was  sp  ired  the  reproach  of 
a  direct  confession  of  disgust  towards  the  spinster ;  as  the  lady  took 
the  aversion  to  herself  only  as  the  brute's  ally. 

My  stepmother  Hubbard  and  myself  were  not  on  visiting  terms  for 
many  years  ;  not,  we  flattered  ourselves,  through  any  hatred  or  un- 
charitableness,  disgraceful  between  relations,  but  from  a  constitutional 
antipathy  on  the  one  side,  and  a  doting  affection  on  the  other — to  a 
dog.  My  breach  of  duty  and  decent  respect  was  softened  down  into 
my  dread  of  hydrophobia :  my  second-hand  parent  even  persuaded 
herself  that  I  was  jealous  of  her  regard  for  Bijou.  It  was  a  comfort- 
able self-delusion  on  both  sides.  But  the  scapegoat  died,  and  then, 
having  no  reasonable  reason  to  excuse  my  visits,  we  came  to  an  open 
rupture.  There  was  no  hope  of  another  favourite.  My  stepmother 
had  no  general  affection  for  the  race,  but  only  for  that  particular  cur. 
It  was  one  of  those  incongruous  attachments,  not  accountr.ble  to  reason, 
but  seemingly  predestmed  by  fate.  The  dog  was  no  keepsake — no 
favourite  of  a  dear  deceased  friend.  Ugly  as  the  brute  was,  she  loved 
him  for  his  own  sake, — not  for  any  fondness  and  fidelity,  for  he  was 
the  most  ungrateful  dog,  under  kindness,  that  I  ever  knew, — not  for 
his  vigilance,  for  he  vvas  never  wakeful.  He  was  not  useful,  like  a 
turnspit;  nor  accomplished,  for  he  could  not  dan^e.  He  had  not 
personal  beauty  even  to  make  him  a  welcome  object  ;  and  yet,  if  my 
relation  had  been  requested  to  display  her  jewels,  she  would  have 
pointed  to  the  dog,  and  have  answered,  in  the  very  spirit  of  Cornelia, 
— "There  is  my  Bijou." 

Conceive,  reader,  under  this  endearing  title,  a  hideous  dwarf-mongrel, 
half  pug  and  half  terrier,  with  a  face  like  a  frog's  ;  his  goggle-eyes 
squeezing  out  of  his  head  ;  a  body  like  a  barrel-churn,  on  four  short 
bandy  legs, — as  if,  in  his  puppyhood,  he  had  been  ill-nursed, — termi- 
nating in  a  tail  like  a  rabbit's.  There  is  only  one  sound  in  nature 
similar  to  his  barking.  To  hear  his  voice,  you  would  have  looked, 
not  for  a  dog,  but  for  a  duck.  He  was  fat  and  scant  of  breath.  It 
might  have  been  said  that  he  was  stuffed  alive.  But  his  loving 
mistress,  in  mournful  anticipation  of  his  death,  kept  a  handsome  glass- 
case  to  hold  his. mummy.  She  intended,  like  Queen  Constance,  to 
"stuff  out  his  vacant  garment  with  his  form;" — to  have  him  ever 
before  her,  *'in  his  habit  as  he  lived  ;" — but  that  hope  was  never 
realised. 

In  those  days  there  were  dog-stealers,  as  well  as  slave-dealers, — the 
kidnapping  of  the  canine,  as  of  the  Negro  victim,  being  attributabla 
to  his  skin. 


ISO 


REMONSTRATORY  ODE. 


One  evening  Bijou  disappeared.  A  fruitless  search  was  made  for 
him  at  all  his  accustomed  haunts  ;  but  at  daybre;ik  the  next  morning, 
stripped  naked  of  his  skin,  with  a  mock  paper  frill,  and  the  slump  uf 
a  tobacco-f)ipe  stuck  in  his  nether  jaw,  he  was  discovered,  set  upright 
against  a  post  ! 

My  stepmother's  grief  was  ungovernable.  Tears,  which  she  had 
rot  wasted  on  her  deceised  step-children,  were  shed  then.  In  her 
first  trnnsport,  a  reward  of  ^loo  was  offered  for  the  appiehension  of 
the  murderers,  but  in  vain. 

The  remains  of  Bijou,  such  as  they  were,  she  caused  to  be  deposited 
under  the  lawn. 

I  forget  what  popular  poet  was  gratified  with  ten  guineas  for  writing 
his  epitaph  ;  but  it  was  in  the  measure  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope." 


"  Oh,  list  unto  my  tale  of  woe  !  " 


REMONSTRA  TOR  Y  ODE, 

FROM  THE  ELEPHANT  AT  EXETER  CHANGE,  TO  MR  MATHEWS,  AT  THK 
ENGUSH  OPERA-HOUSE. 

"  See  with  what  courteou-;  action. 
He  beckons  you  to  a  mure  removed  ground." — Hamlet, 


[written  by  A  FRIEND.] 


Oh,  Mr  Mathews  !  Sir  ! 
(If  a  plain  elephant  may  spe.ik  his  mind, 
And  that  I  have  a  mind  to  speak  I  find 

By  my  inward  stir), 
I  long  have  thought,  and  \\  ish'd  to  say,  that  we 
I.Iar  cur  well-merited  prosperity 

By  being  such  near  neighbours, 
My  keeper  now  hath  lent  me  pen  and  ink, 
bhoved  in  my  truss  of  lunch,  and  tub  of  drink, 

A.nd  left  me  to  my  labours. 


REMONSTRATORY  ODE.  ISI 

The  whole  menagerie  is  in  repose, 
The  Coataniundi  is  in  his  Sunday  clothes, 
Watching  the  Lynx's  most  unnntural  doze; 
The  P.mther  is  asleep  and  the  Macaw  ; 
The  Lion  is  engajjed  on  something  raw; 

The  White  Bear  cools  his  chin 

'Gainst  the  wet  tin  ; 
And  the  confined  old  Monkey's  in  the  straw. 
All  the  nine  little  Lionets  are  lying 
Slumbering  in  milk,  and  sighing  ; 

Miss  Cross  is  sipping  ox-tail  soup, 

In  her  front  coop, 
So  here's  the  hap;>y  mid-day  moment ; — yes, 
I  seize  it,  Mr  Mathews,  to  address 

A  word  or  two 
To  you 
On  the  subject  of  the  ruin  which  must  come 
By  both  being  in  the  Strand,  and  both  at  home 
On  the  same  nights  ;  two  triats 

So  very  near  each  other, 

As,  oh  my  brother  ! 
To  pLiy  old  gooseberry  with  both  receipts. 


When  you  begin 
Your  summer  fun,  three  times  a  week,  at  eight, 
And  carria;^es  roll  up,  and  cits  roll  in, 
I  feel  a  change  in  Exeter  'Change's  change. 
And,  dash  my  trunk  !  I  hate 
To  ring  my  bell,  when  you  ring  yours,  and  go 
With  a  diminish'd  glory  through  my  show  ! 

It  is  most  strange  ; 
But  crowds  that  meant  to  see  me  eat  a  stack, 
And  sip  a  water-butt  or  so,  and  crack 
A  root  of  mangel-wurzel  with  my  foot, 
Eat  little  children's  fruit, 

Pick  from  the  iioor  small  coins, 
And  then  turn  slowly  round  and  show  my  India-rubber  loins; 

'Tis  strange — most  strange,  but  true, 
That  these  same  crowds  %<i^V  you  ! 
P.iss  j/iy  abode,  and  pay  a.t your  next  door  1 
It  makes  me  roar 

With  anguish  when  I  think  of  this  ;  I  go 
With  sad  severity  my  nightly  rounds 
Before  one  poor  front  row, 
My  fatal  funny  foe  ! 
And  when  I  stoop,  as  duty  bids,  I  sigh 
And  feel  that,  while  poor  elephantine  I 

Pick  up  a  sixpence,  you  pick  up  the  pounds  1 


IS* 


REMONSTRATORY  ODE. 


III. 

Could  you  not  go  ? 
Could  you  not  take  the  Cobourg  or  the  Surrey? 
Or  Sadler's  Wells, — (I  am  not  in  a  hurry, 
I  never  am  !)  for  the  next  season  ? — oh  ! 

Woe  !  woe  !  woe  ! 
To  both  of  us,  if  we  remain  ,  for  not 
In  silence  will  I  bear  my  alter'd  lot, 
To  have  you  merry,  sir,  at  my  expense  ; 

No  man  of  any  sense, 
No  true  great  person  (and  we  both  are  great 
In  our  own  ways)  would  tempt  another's  fate. 
I  would  myself  depart 
In  Mr  Cross's  cart  ; 


"  How  happy  could  I  be  with  either  1 " 

But,  like  Othello,  "  am  not  easily  moved." 

There's  a  nice  house  in  Tottenham  Court,  they  say, 

Fit  for  a  single  gentleman's  small  pliy  ; 

And  more  conveniently  near  your  home  : 

You'll  easilv  go  and  come. 
Or  get  a  room  in  the  City — in  some  street — 
Coachmaker's  Hall,  or  the  Paul's  Head, 

Cateaton  Street  ; 
Any  large  place,  in  short,  in  which  to  get  your  bread  ; 

But  do  not  stay,  and  get 

Me  into  the  Gazette  ! 


IV. 

Ah  !  The  Gazette  ; 
I  press  my  forehead  with  my  trunk,  and  wet 
My  tender  cheek  with  elephantine  tears, 

Shed  of  a  walnut  size 

From  my  wise  eyes, 


REMONSTRATORY  ODE.  Kl 

To  think  of  ruin  after  prosperous  years. 

What  a  dread  case  would  be 

For  me — large  rue  ! 
To  meet  at  Basinghall  Street,  the  first  and  seventh 

And  the  eleventh  ! 
To  undergo  (D n  !) 

My  last  examination  ! 
To  cringe,  and  to  surrender, 
Like  a  criminal  offender, 
All  my  effects— my  bell-pull,  and  my  bell, 
My  bolt,  my  stock  of  hay,  my  new  deal  celL 

'Yo  p  >st  my  ivory,  sir  ! 
And  have  some  curious  commissioner 
Very  irreverentlv  search  my  trunk  ; 

'Sdeath  !  I  should  die 
With  rage,  to  find  a  tiger  in  possession 
Of  my  abode  ;  up  to  his  yellow  knees 
In  my  old  straw  ;  and  my  profound  profession 
Entrusted  to  two  beasts  of  assignees  ! 

V. 

The  truth  is  simply  this, — if  you  will  stay 

Under  my  very  nose, 

Filling  your  rows 
Just  at  my  feeding-time,  to  s&t your  play, 

My  mind's  made  up. 

No  more  at  nine  I  sup, 
Except  on  Tuesdays,  Wednesdays,  Fridays,  Sundays  ; 


"  Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away  1' 

From  eight  to  eleven. 
As  I  hope  for  heaven. 
On  Thursdays,  and  on  Saturdays,  and  Mondays, 
I'll  squeak  and  roar,  and  grunt  without  cessation, 
And  utterly  confound  your  recitation. 
And  mark  me  !  all  my  friends  of  the  furry  snout 
Shall  join  a  chorus  shout ; 


r 54  A  NEW  LIFE-PRESER VER. 

We  will  be  heard — we'll  spoil 
Your  wicked  ruination  toil. 

Insolvency  must  ensue 

To  you,  sir,  you  ; 
Unless  you  move  your  opposition  shop. 

And  let  me  stop. 

VI. 

I  have  no  more  to  say  : — I  do  not  write 
In  anger,  but  in  sorrow  ;   1  must  look, 
However,  to  my  interests  every  night, 

And  they  detest  your  "  Memorandum-book." 
If  we  could  join  our  forces — I  should  like  it  ; 

You  do  the  dialogue,  and  I  the  songs. 
A  voice  to  me  belongs 
(The  Editors  of  the  Globe  and  Traveller  ring 
With  praises  of  it,  when  I  hourly  sing 

God  s.ive  the  Kin;^). 
If  such  a  bargain  could  be  schemed,  I'd  strike  it ! 
I  think,  too,  1  could  do  the  Welch  old  man 
In  the  Youthful  D  lys,  if  dress'd  upon  yoar  plaa  ; 
And  the  attorney  in  your  Paris  trip, — 

I'm  large  about  the  hip  ! 
Now  think  of  this  ! — for  we  cannot  go  on 

As  next-door  rivals,  that  my  mind  declares. 
I  must  be  penniless,  or  you  be  gone  ! 
We  must  live  separate,  or  else  have  shares. 
I  am  a  friend  or  foe 
As  you  take  this  ; 
Let  me  your  profitable  hubbub  miss, 
Or  be  it  "  Mathews,  Elephant,  and  Co.  !* 


A  NE  W  LIFE-PRESER  VER. 

"  Of  hair-breadth  'scapes." — Othello. 

I  HAVE  read  somewhere  of  a  traveller,  who  carried  with  him  a  brace 
of  pistols,  a  carbine,  a  cutlass,  a  dagi;er,  and  an  umbrella,  but  was 
indebted  for  his  preservation  to  the  umbrella  :  it  grappled  with  a  bush 
when   he  was   rolling  over  a   precipice.     In   like   manner,  my  friend 

W ,  though  armtd  with  a  sword,  rifle,  and  hunting-knife,  owed  his 

existence — to  his  wig  ! 

He   was   specimen-hunting   (for  W is    a   first-rate   naturalist) 

somewhere  in  the  backwoods  of  America,  when,  happening  to  light 
upon  a  dense  covert,  there  sprang  out  upon  him, — not  a  panther  or 
catamountain,— but,  with  terrible  whoop  and  yell,  a  wild  Indian, — one 

of  a  tribe  then  hostile  to  our  settlers.     W 's  gun  was  mastered  in 

a  twmkling,  himself  stretched  on  the  earth,  the  barbarous  knife,  des- 
tined to  make  him  balder  than  Granby's  celebrated  Marquis,  leaped 
eagerly  from  its  sheath. 


A  NEW  LIFE-PRESERVER.  IJJ 

Conceive  the  horrible  weapon  mnking  its  preliminary  flourishes  and 
circumgyrations  :  the  savage  features,  made  savager  by  punt  and 
ruddle,  working  themselves  up  to  a  demoniacal  crisis  of  triumphant 
malignity  ;  his  red  ri>;ht  hand  clutching  the  shearing-knife  ;  his  left, 
the  frizzled  top-knot  ;  and  then,  the  ariificial  scalp  commg  off  in  the 
Mohawk  grasp  ! 

W says,  the  Indian  catchpole  was,  for  some  moments,  motion- 
less with  surprise  ;  recoverin;/,  at  list,  he  dragged  his  captive  along, 
through  br.ike  and  jungle,  to  the  encampment.  A  peculiar  whoop  soon 
brought  the  whole  horde  to  the  ^pot.    The  Indian  addressed  them  with 

vehement  gestures,  in  the  course  of  which  W was  again  thrown 

down,  the  knife  again  performed  its  circuits,  and  the  whole  transaction 
was  pantomimically  described.  All  Indian  sedateness  and  restraint 
were  overcome.  The  assembly  made  every  den'onstration  of  wonder; 
and  the  wig  was  fitted  on,  rightly,  ;ind  askew,  and  hind  part  before,  by 
a  hundred  pair  of  red  hands.  Captain  Gulliver's  glove  was  not  a 
greater  puzzle  to  the   Houliyhnms.     From  the  men  it  passed  to  the 

squaws  ;  and  from  them,  down  to  the  least  of  the  urchms  ;  W 's 

head,  in  the  meantime,  frying  in  a  midsummer  sun.  At  length,  the 
phenomenon  returned  into  the  hands  of  the  chief — a  venerable  grey- 
beard :  he  examined  it  afresh,  very  atte'ntively,  and,  after  a  long  deli- 
beration, maintained  witii  true  Indian  silence  and  gravity,  made  a 
speech  in  his  own  tongue,  that  procured  for  the  anxious  trembling 
captive  very  unexpected  honours.  In  fact,  the  whole  tribe  of  women 
and  warriors  danced  round  him,  with  such  unequivocal  m..rks  of  hom- 
age, that  even  W comprehended  that  he  was  not   intended  for 

sacrifice.  He  was  then  carried  in  triumph  to  tlieir  wi:;wams,  his  body 
daubed  with  their  body  colours  of  the  most  honourable  patterns  ;  and 
he  was  given  to  understand,  that  he  might  choose  any  of  their  marriage- 
able maidens  for  a  squaw.  AvaiHng  himself  of  this  privilege,  and  so 
becommg,  by  degrees,  more  a  proficient  in  their  language,  he  learned 
the  cause  of  this  extraordinary  respect. — It  was  considered,  that  he  had 
been  a  great  warrior ;  that  he  had,  by  mischance  of  w.ir,  been  overcome 
and  tufted  ;  but  that,  whether  by  valour  or  stratagem,  each  equally 
estimable  amongst  the  savages,  he  had  recovered  his  liberty  and  his 
scalp. 

As  long  as  W kept  his  own  counsel,  he  was  safe  ;  but  trusting 

his  Indian  Delilah  with  the  secret  of  his  locks,  it  soon  got  wind  amongst 
the  squaws,  and  from  them  became  known  to  the  warriors  and  chiefs. 
A  solemn  sitting  was  held  at  midnight,  by  the  chiefs,  to  consider  the 
propriety  of  knocking  the  poor  wig-owner  on  the  head  ;  but  he  had 
received  a  timely  hmt  of  their  intention,  and,  when  the  tomahawks 
Bought  for  him,  he  was  far  on  his  way,  with  his  Lile-preserver,  towards 
a  British  settlement 


^KlSiS^* 


156 


A  Dream. 


A  DREAM. 

IN  the  figure  above — (a  medley  of  human  faces,  wherein  certain 
features  belong  in  common  to  different  vis  iges,  the  eyebrow  of 
one,  for  instance,  forming  the  mouih  of  another) — I  have  tried  to  typify 
a  common  characteristic  of  dreams,  namely,  the  entanglement  of  divers 
ideas,  to  the  waking  mind  distinct  or  incongruous,  but,  by  the  confusion 
of  sleep,  inseparably  ravelled  up,  and  knotted  into  Gordian  intricacies. 
For,  as  the  equivocal  feature,  in  the  emblem,  belongs  indifferently  to 
either  countenance,  but  is  appropriated  by  the  he;id  that  happens  to 
be  presently  the  object  of  contemplation ;  so,  m  a  dream,  two  separate 
notions  will  mutually  involve  some  convertible  incident,  that  becomes, 
by  turns,  a  symptom  of  both  in  general,  or  of  either  in  particular.  Thus 
are  begotten  the  most  extravagant  associations  of  thoui^hts  and  images, 
— unnatural  connexions,  like  those  marriages  of  forbidden  relation- 
ships, where  mothers  become  cousins  to  their  own  sons  or  daughters, 
and  quite  as  bewildering  as  such  genealogical  embarrassments. 

I  had  a  di-;mal  dream  once,  of  this  nature,  that  will  serve  well  for  an 
illustration,  and  which  originated  in  the  failure  of  my  first,  and  last, 
attempt  as  a  dramatic  wriier.  Many  of  my  readers,  if  I  were  to  name 
the  piece  in  question,  would  remember  its  signal  condemnition.  As 
soon  as  the  Tragedy  of  my  Tragedy  was  completed,  I  got  into  a  coach 
and  rode  home.  My  nerves  were  quivering  with  shame  and  mortiti- 
cation.  I  tried  to  compose  myself  over  "  Paradise  Lost,"  but  it  failed 
to  soothe  me.  I  flung  m\  self  into  bed,  and  at  length  slept  ;  but  the 
disaster  of  the  night  still  haunted  my  dreams  ;  I  was  again  in  the 
accursed  theatre,  but  with  a  difference.     It  was  a  compound  of  the 


A  DREAM. 


IS7 


Dm ry  Lane  building  and  Pandemonium.  There  were  the  old  shining 
green  pillars  on  either  side  of  the  stnge,  but,  above,  a  sublimer  dome 
than  ever  overhung  mortal  pl.iybouse.  The  wonted  familiars  were  in 
keepmg  of  the  fore-spoken  se  its,  but  the  first  companies  tliry  admitted 
were  new  and  strange  to  the  place.     The  first  and  second  tiers, 

"  With  dreadful  faces  throng' d,  and  fieiy  arms,"  ' 

showed  like  those  purgatori.d  circles  sung  of  by  the  ancient  Florentine. 
Satin  wns  in  the  stage-box.  The  pit,  dismally  associated  with  its  bot- 
tomless namescik.",  w.is  peopled  with  fiends.  Mehu  scowled  from  the 
critics'  seat.  ■  ISelial,  flushed  with  wine,  led  on  with  shout  and  catcall 
the  uproar  of  the  one---hilling  infernals.  My  hair  stood  upright  with 
dread  and  horror;  I  had  an  appalling  sense  that  more  than  my  drama- 
tic welfare  was  at  stake  : — that  it  was  to  be  not  a  purely  literary  ordeal. 
An  alarming  figure,  sometimes  a  newspaper  reporter,  sometimes  a 
devil,  so  prevaricating  are  the  communications  of  sleep,  was  sitting, 
with  his  note-book,  iRt  my  side.  My  play  began.  As  it  proceeded, 
sounds  indescribable  arose  from  the  infernal  auditory,  increasing  iill 
the  end  pf  the  first  net.  The  familiar  cry,  of  "  Choose  any  oranges  !  " 
was  then  intermingled  with  the  murmurings  of  demons      The  tumult 


'■  Oh,  brothe  not  his  name';;" 

grew  with  the  progress  of  the  play.  The  last  act  passed  in  dumb  show, 
the  horned  monsters  bellowing,  throughout,  like  the  wild  bulls  of 
Bashan.  Prongs  and  flesh-hooks  showered  upon  the  stage.  Mrs 
Siddons — the  human  nature  thus  jumbling  with  the  diabolical — was 
struck  by  a  brimstone  bail.  Her  lofty  brotlier,  robed  in  imperial  purple, 
came  forward  towards  the  orchestra,  to  remonstrate,  and  was  received 
like  the  Arch-devil  in  the  Poem  : 

"  He  hears 
On  all  sides,  from  innumerable  tongues, 
A  dismal  universal  hiss,  the  sound 
Of  public  scorn." 


IS8  A  DREAM. 

He  bowed  to  the  sense  of  the  house,  and  withdrew.  My  doom  was 
sealed  ;  the  rtcording  devil  noted  down  my  sentence.  A  suffocating 
vapour,  now  smelling  of  sulphur,  and  now  of  gas,  issued  from  the 
unquenchable  sta,;e-l  imps.  The  flames  of  the  Catalonian  Castle, 
burning  in  the  back  scene,  in  compliance  with  the  catastrophe  of  the 
piece,  blazed  up  with  horrible  import.  My  flesh  crept  all  over  me.  I 
thought  of  the  everlasting  torments,  and  at  the  next  moment  of  the 
morrow's  paragraphs.  I  shrank  at  once  from  the  comments  of  the 
Morning  Post,  and  the  hot  marl  of  Malebolge.  The  sins  of  authorship 
had  confounded  themselves,  inextricably,  with  the  mortal  sins  of  the 
law.  1  could  not  disentangle  my  own  from  my  play's  perdition.  I  was 
damned  :  but  whether  spiritually  or  dramatically  the  twilight  intelli- 
gence of  a  dream  was  not  clear  enough  to  determine. 

Another  sample,  wherein  the  preliminaries  of  the  dream  involved  one 
portion,  and  implicitly  forbade  the  other  h.Jf  of  the  conclusion,  was 
more  whimsical.  It  occurred  when  I  was  en  the  eve  of  marriage,  a 
season  when,  if  lovers  sleep  sparingly,  they  dream  profusely.  A  very 
brief  slumber  sufficed  to  carry  me  in  the  night-coach  to  Bognor.  It 
ha'd  been  concerted,  between  Honoria  and  myself,  that  we  should  pass 
the  honeymoon  at  some  such  place  upon  the  coast.  The  purpose  of 
my  solitary  journey  \\as  to  procure  an  appropriate  d^xelling,  and  which, 
we  had  agreed,  should  be  a  little  pleas  mt  house,  with  an  indispensable 
look-out  upon  the  sea.  I  chose  one,  .iccordingly  ;  a  pretty  villa,  with 
bow-windows,  and  a  prospect  deligiitfidly  marine.  The  ocean  murmur 
sounded  incessantly  from  the  beach.  A  decent  elderly  body,  in  decayed 
sables,  undertook,  on  her  part,  to  promote  the  comforts  of  the  occu- 
pants by  every  suitable  attention,  and,  as  she  assured  me,  at  a  very 
reasonable  rate.  So  far,  the  nocturnal  faculty  had  served  me  truly.  A 
day-dream  could  not  have  proceeded  mi  re  orderly:  but  alas!  just 
here,  when  the  dwelling  was  selected,  the  sea-view  secured,  the  rent 
agreed  upon,  when  everything  was  plausible,  consistent,  and  rational, 
the  incoherent  fancy  crept  in  and  confounded  all, — by  marrying  me 
to  the  old  woman  of  the  house  ! 

A  large  proportion  of  my  dreams  have,  like  the  preceding,  an  origin, 
more  or  less  remote,  in  some  actual  occurrence.  But  from  all  my 
observations  and  experience,  the  popular  notion  is  a  mistaken  one,  that 
our  dreams  take  their  subject  and  colour  from  the  business  or  meditations 
of  the  day.  It  is  true  that  sleep  frequently  gives  back  real  images  and 
actions,  like  a  mirror  ;  but  the  reflection  returns  at  a  longer  intervaL 
It  extracts  from  pages  of  some  standing,  like  the  Retrospective  Re' 
view.  The  mind,  released  from  its  connexion  with  extern.il  associa- 
tions, flies  off,  gladly,  to  novel  speculations.  The  soul  does  not  carry 
its  tasks  out  of  school.  The  novel,  read  upon  the  pillow,  is  of  no  more 
influence  than  the  bride-cake  laid  beneath  it.  The  charms  of  Di 
Vernon  have  faded  with  me  into  a  vision  of  Dr  Faustus  ;  the  bridal 
dance  and  festivities^  into  a  chase  by  a  mad  bullock. 

The  sleeper,  like  the  felon  at  the  putting  on  of  the  night-cap,  is 
about  to  be  turned  off  from  the  affairs  of  this  world.  The  material 
'icaflold  sinks  under  him  ;  he  drops — as  it  is  expressively  called^ 
asleep  ;  and  the  spirit  is  transponed,  we  know  not  whither  ! 

I  should  like  to  know  that,  by  any  earnest  application  of  thought, 


A  DREAM.  159 

we  could  impress  its  subject  upon  the  midnight  blank.  It  would  be 
worth  a  day's  devotion  to  Milton, — "from  morn  till  noon,  from  noon 
till  diwy  eve," — to  obtain  but  one  glorious  vision  from  the  "  Paradise 
Lost;"  to  SpeHTser,  to  purchase  but  one  maijical  reflection — a  Fata 
Morgana — of  the  "  Faery  Quten  !  "  I  have  heard  it  affirmed,  indred, 
by  a  gentleman,  an  especial  advocate  of  early  rising,  that  he  could 
procure  whatever  dream  he  wished  ;  but  I  disbelieve  it,  or  he  would 
pass  far  more  hours  than  he  does  in  bed.  If  it  were  possible,  by  any 
process,  to  bespeak  the  nii^ht's  entertainment,  the  theatres,  for  me, 
might  close  their  uninviting  doors.  Who  would  care  to  sit  at  the 
miserable  stage  parodies  of  "Lear,"  "Hamlet,"  and  "Othello;"  to 
say  nothing  of  the  "Tempest,"  or  the  "Midsummer  Night's  Phan- 
tasy,"— that  could  command  the  representation  of  either  of  those 
noble  dramas,  with  all  the  sublime  personations,  the  magnificent 
scenery,  and  awful  reality  of  a  dream  ? 

For   horrible    f.mcies   meiely,   niglnmares    and    incubi,   there  is  a 
recipe  extant,  that  is  currently  attributed  to  the  late  Mr  Fuseli.     I 


"My  nature  is  subdued  to  what  it  works  in." 


mean,  a  supper  of  raw  pork  ;  but,  as  I  never  slept  after  it,  I  cannot 
speak  as  to  the  effect. 

0|.iium  I  have  never  tried,  and,  therefore,  have  never  experienced 
such  ni.ignihcent  visions  as  are  described  by  its  eloquent  historian.  I 
have  never  been  buried  for  ages  under  pyramids  ;  and  yet,  methinks, 
have  suffered  agonies  as  intense  as  ]iis  could  be  from  the  common- 
pi. ice  inflictions.  For  example,  a  night  spent  in  the  counting  of  inter- 
minable numbers — an  inquisitorial  penance — everlasting  tedium — the 
mind's  treadmill  ! 

Another  writer,  in  recording  his  horrible  dreams,  describes  himself 
>o  have  been  sometimes  an  animal  lursued  by  hounds  ;  sometimes  a 
bird,  torn  in  pieces  by  eagles.  They  are  fiat  contradictions  i  f  my 
Theory  of  Dreams.     Such  Ovidian  Metamorphoses  never  yet  entered 


l6o  A  DREAM. 

into  my  experience.  I  never  translate  myself.  I  must  know  the  taste 
of  rape  and  hempseed,  and  have  cleansed  my  gizzard  with  small 
gravL-1,  before  even  fancy  can  turn  me  into  a  bird.  I  must  have 
another  now!  upon  my  shoulders,  ere  I  can  feel  a  longing  for  "  a  bottle 
of  cliopt  hay,  or  your  good  dried  oats."  My  own  habits  and  pre- 
judices, nil  the  symptoms  of  my  identity,  cling  to  me  in  my  dreams. 
It  never  happened  to  me  to  fancy  myself  a  child  or  a  woman,  dwarf  or 
giant,  stone-blind,  or  deprived  of  any  senses. 

And  here,  the  latter  part  of  the  sentence  reminds  me  of  an  interest- 
ing question  on  this  subject,  that  has  greatly  puzzled  me,  and  of 
which  I  should  be  glad  to  obtain  a  satisfactory  solution,  viz.,  How 
does  a  blind  man  dream  ? — I  mean  a  p:  rson  with  the  opaque  crystal 
from  his  birth.  He  is  defective  in  that  very  faculty  wkich,  of  all 
others,  is  most  active  in  those  night-passages,  thence  emphatically 
called  Visions.  He  has  had  no  acquaintance  with  external  ima^jes, 
and  has,  therefore,  none  of  those  transparent  pictures  that,  like  Ihe 
slides  of  a  magic-lantern,  pass  before  the  mind's  eye,  and  are  pro- 
jected by  the  inward  spiritual  light  upon  the  utter  blank.  His  imagi- 
nation must  be  like  an  imperfect  kaleidoscope,  totally  unfurnished 
with  those  parti-coloured  fragments  whereof  the  complete  instrument 
makes  such  interminable  combmations.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive 
such  a  man's  dream. 

Is  it  a  still  benighted  wandering— a  pitch-dark  night  progress, 
made  known  to  him  by  the  consciousness  of  the  remaining  senses  ? 
Is  he  still  pulled  through  the  universal  blank,  by  an  invisible  power 
as  it  were,  at  the  nether  end  of  the  string?— regaled,  sometimes,  with 
celestial  voluntaries  and  unknown  mysterious  fragrances,  answering  to 
our  more  romantic  flights  ;  at  other  times,  with  homely  voices  and 
more  familiar  odours  ;  here,  of  rank-smelling  cheeses  ;  there,  of  pun- 
gent pickles  or  aromatic  drugs,  hinting  his  progress  through  a  metro- 
politan street.?  Does  he  over  again  enjoy  the  grateful  roundness  of 
those  substantial  droppings  from  the  invisible  passenger, — pal[)able 
deposits  of  an  abstract  benevolence,— or,  in  his  nightmares,  suffer 
anew  those  painful  concussions  and  corporeal  buffetings,  from  that  (to 
him)  obscure  evil  principle,  the  Parish  Beadle  ? 

This  question  I  am  happily  enabled  to  resolve,  through  the  infor- 
mation of  the  oldest  of  those  blind  Tobits  that  stand  in  fresco  against 
Bunhill  Wall — the  same  who  made  that  notable  comparison  of  s^carlet 
to  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  As  I  understood  him,  harmonv,  with  the 
gravel-blind,  is  prismatic  as  well  as  chromatic.  To  use  his  own  illus- 
tration, a  wall-eyed  man  has  a  palette  in  his  ear,  as  well  as  in  his 
mouth.  Some  stone-blinds,  indeed,  dull  dogs,  without  any  ear  for 
colour,  profess  to  distinguish  the  different  hues  and  shades  by  the 
touch,  but  that,  he  said,  was  a  slovenly  uncertain  method,  and  in  the 
chief  article  of  paintings  not  allowed  to  be  exercised. 

On.my  expressing  some  natural  surprise  at  the  aptitude  of  his  cele- 
brated comparison,— a  miraculous  close  likening,  to  my  mind,  of  the 
known  to  the  unknown,— he  told  me  the  instance  was  nothing,  for  the 
least  discriminative  ampng  them  could  distinguish  the  scarlet  colour 
of  the  mail-guards'  liveries,  by  the  sound  of  their  horns  :  bilt  there 
fere  others,  so  acute   their   faculty  !  that  they  could  tell  the  very 


THE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER. 


I6l 


features  and  complexion  of  their  relatives  and  familiars,  by  the  mere 
tone  of  their  voices.  I  was  much  gratified  with  this  explanation  ;  for 
I  confess,  hitherto,  I  was  always  extremely  puzzled  by  that  narrative 
in  the  Tatler,  of  a  young  gentleman's  behaviour  after  the  operation  of 
couchin;-r,  and  especially  at  the  wonderful  promptness  with  which  he 
distinguished  his  father  from  his  mother, — his  mistress  from  her  maid. 
But  it  appears  that  the  blind  are  not  so  blind  as  they  have  been  es- 
teemed in  the  vulgar  notion.  What  they  cannot  get  one  way  they 
obtain  in  another  :  they,  in  fact,  realise  what  the  author  of  Hudibras 
has  ridiculed  as  a  fiction,  for  they  set  up 

"  Communities  of  sense^ 
To  chop  and  change  intelligences. 
As  Rosicrucian  Virtuosis 
Can  see  with  ears — and  hear  with  noses." 


Spring  and  Fall. 


7HB  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER. 


Alack  !  'tis  melancholy  theme  to  think 
How  Learning  doth  in  rugged  states  abide, 
And,  like  her  ba-hful  owl,  obscurely  blink 
In  pensive  glooms  and  corners,  scan  ely  spied  ; 
Not,  as  in  Founders    Halls  and  domes  of  pride, 
Served  with  grave  homage,  like  a  tragic  queen, 
But  with  one  lonely  priest  compell'd  to  hide. 
In  midst  of  foggy  moors  and  mosses  green, 
In  that  clay  cabbin  hig^t  the  College  of  Kilreen  ! 


t(>Z  THE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER. 

II. 

This  Q,(/.ifgt  looketh  South  and  West  alsoe, 
Because  it  halh  a  cast  in  windows  twain  ; 
Crazy  and  crack'd  ihey  be,  and  wind  doth  blow 
Thorough  transparent  holes  in  every  pane, 
Which  Dan,  with  many  paines,  makes  whole  again 
With  nether  ^^arments,  which  his  thrift  doth  teach 
To  stand  for  gliss,  like  proni)uns,  and  when  rain 
Stormeth,  he  puts,  "  once  more  unto  the  breach," 
Outside  and  in,  though  broke,  yet  so  he  mendeth  each. 

III. 

And  in  the  midst  a  little  door  there  is, 
Whereon  a  board  that  doth  congratulate 
With  painted  letters,  red  as  blood  I  wis. 
Thus  written, 

"CHILDREN  TAKEN  IN  TO  BATE  :• 
And  oft,  inde-d,  the  inward  of  that  gate. 
Most  ventriloque,  doth  utter  tender  squeak. 
And  moans  of  mf.mts  that  bemoan  their  fate, 
In  midst  of  sounds  of  Laim,  French,  and  Greek, 
Which,  ail  i'  the  Irish  tongue,  he  teacheth  them  to  speak. 

IV. 

For  some  are  meant  to  right  illegal  wrongs, 
And  some  for  Doctors  of  Divinhie, 
Whom  he  doth  teach  to  murder  the  dead  tongue^ 
And  soe'  win  academical  degree  : 
But  some  are  bred  for  service  of  the  sea, 
Howbeit,  their  store  of  learning  is  but  small. 
For  mickle  waste  he  counteth  it  would  be 
To  stock  a  head  with  bookish  wares  at  all, 
Only  to  be  knock'd  off  by  ruthless  cannon-ball, 

V. 

Six  babes  he  sways — some  little  and  some  big, 
Divided  into  classes  six  ; — alsoe, 
He  keeps  a  parlour  boarder  of  a  pig, 
That  in  the  College  fareth  to  and  fro, 
And  picketh  up  the  urchins'  crumbs  below,— 
And  eke  the  learned  rudiments  they  scan, 
And  thus  his  A,  B,  C,  doth  wisely  know, — 
Hereafter  to  be  shown  in  caravan, 
And  raise  the  wonderment  of  many  a  learned  maik 

VI. 

Alsoe,  he  schools  some  tame  familiar  fowls, 
Whereof,  above  his  head,  some  two  or  three 


THE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER,  x%^ 

Sit  darkly  squatting,  like  Minerva's  owls, 
But  on  the  branches  of  no  living  tree, 
And  overlook  the  learned  family  ; 
While, •ometimes,  Partlet,  from  her  gloomy  perch, 
Drops  feather  on  the  nose  of  Dominie, 
Meanwhile,  with  serious  eye,  he  makes  research 
In  leaves  of  that  sour  tree  of  knowled^^e — now  a  birch. 

VII. 

No  chair  he  hath,  the  awful  Pedagogue, 
Such  as  would  mngisterial  hams  imbed, 
But  sitteth  lowly  on  a  beechen  log, 
Secure  in  high  authority  and  dread  : 
Large  as  a  dome,  for  learning,  seems  his  head. 
And,  like  Apollo's,  all  beset  with  rays. 
Because  his  locks  are  so  unkempt  and  red. 
And  stand  abroad  in  many  several  ways  : — 
No  laurel  crown  he  wears,  howbeit  his  cap  is  baiz& 

Till. 

And,  underneath,  a  pair  of  shaggy  brows 
O'erhang  as  many  eyes  of  gizzard  hue. 
That  inward  giblet  of  a  fowl,  which  shows 
A  mongrel  tint,  that  is  ne  brown  ne  blue ; 
His  nose, — it  is  a  coral  to  the  view  ; 
Well  nourish'd  with  Pierian  Potheen, — 
For  much  he  loves  his  native  mountain  dew;— 
But  to  depict  the  dye  would  lack,  I  ween, 
A  bottle-red,  in  terms,  as  well  as  bottle-green. 


IX 

As  for  his  coat,  'tis  such  a  jerkin  short 
As  Spenser  had,  ere  he  composed  his  Tales  ; 
But  underneath  he  hath  no  vest,  nor  aught. 
So  that  the  wind  his  airy  breast  assails  ; 
Below,  he  wears  the  nether  garb  of  males. 
Of  crimson  plush,  but  non-plush'd  at  the  knee  ;— 
Thence  further  down  the  native  red  prevails, 
Of  his  own  naked  fleecy  hosierie  : — 
Two  sandals,  without  soles,  complete  his  cap-a-pee. 


X. 

Nathless,  for  dignity,  he  now  doth  lap 

His  function  in  a  magisterial  gown, 

That  shows  more  countries  in  it  than  a  map,— 

Blue  tinct,  and  red,  and  green,  and  russet  brown. 


164  THE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Besides  some  blots,  standing  for  country-town  ; 
And  eke  some  rents,  for  streams  and  rivers  wide| 
But,  sometimes,  bashful  when  he  looks  adown, 
He  turns  tlic  garment  of  the  other  side,       # 
Hopeful  that  so  the  holes  may  never  be  espied  I 

XI. 

And  see  he  sits  amidst  the  little  pnck, 
That  look  for  shady  or  for  sunny  noon 
Within  his  visat^e,  like  an  almanac, — 
His  quiet  smile  foretelling  gracious  boon  : 
But  when  his  mouth  droops  down,  like  rainy  moon. 
With  horrid  chill  each  little  heart  unwarms, 
Knowing  that  infant  showers  will  follow  soon, 
And  witn  forebodio'^'s  of  near  wrath  and  storms 
They  sit,  like  timid  hares,  all  trembUng  on  their  forms. 

XII. 

Ah  !  luckless  wight,  who  cannot  then  repeat 
"  Corduroy  Colloquy,"— or  "  Ki,  Kas,  Kod,"— 
Full  soon  his  tears  shall  make  his  turfy  seat 
More  sodden,  though  already  made  of  sod, 
For  Dan  shall  whip  him  with  the  word  of  God,— ■ 
Severe  by  rule,  and  not  by  nature  mild, 
He  never  spoils  the  child  and  spares  the  rod, 
But  spoils  the  rod  and  never  spares  the  child. 
And  soe  with  holy  rule  deems  he  is  reconciled. 

XIII. 

But,  surely,  the  just  sky  will  never  wink 
At  men  who  take  delight  in  childish  throe, 
And  stripe  the  nether-urchin  like  a  pink 
Or  tender  hyacinth,  inscribed  with  woe  ; 
Such  bloody  Pedagogues,  when  they  shall  know, 
By  useless  birchts,  tiiat  forlorn  recess, 
Wliich  is  no  holiday,  in  Pit  below, 
Will  hell  not  seem  design'd  for  their  distress,— 
A  melancholy  place  that  is  all  bottomlesse  ? 

XIV. 

Yet  would  the  Muse  not  chide  the  wholesome  use 
Of  n.?edful  discipline,  in  due  degree. 
Devoid  of  sway,  what  wrongs  will  time  produce, 
Whene'er  the  twig  untrairi'd  grows  up  a  tree  1 
This  shall  a  Carder,  that  a  W  hiteboy  be. 
Ferocious  leaders  of  atrocious  bands, 
And  Learning's  help  be  used  for  infamie 
By  lawless  clerks,  that,  with  their  bloody  hands, 
In  murder'd  English  write  Rock's  murderous  commands. 


THE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER. 


I6S 


XV. 

But  ah  !  what  shrilly  cry  doth  now  alarm 
The  sooty  fowls  that  dozed  upon  the  beam, 
All  sudden  fluttering  from  the  brandish'd  arm, 
And  cacklin.^^  chorus  with  the  human  scream? 
Me.inwhile,  the  scourge  plies  that  unkindly  seam 
In  Phclim's  brogues,  which  bares  his  naked  skin, 
Like  traitor  gap  in  w.irlike  fort,  I  deem, 
That  falsely  lets  the  tierce  besiej^er  in  ; 
Nor  seeks  the  Pedagogue  by  other  course  to  win. 

XVI. 

No  parent  dear  he  nath  to  heed  his  cries  ;— 
Alas  !  his  parent  dear  is  far  aloof, 
And  deep  in  Seven-Dial  cellar  lies, 
Kill'd  by  kind  cudgel-play,  or  gin  of  proof, 


"All  in  the  downs.'* 


Or  climbeth,  catwise,  on  some  London  roof, 
Singing,  perchance,  a  lay  of  Erin's  Isle, 
Or,  whilst  he  labours,  weaves  a  fancy-woof. 
Dreaming  he  sees  his  home, — his  Phelim  smile; 
Ah  me  !  that  luckless  imp,  who  weepeth  all  the  while  I 


XVII. 


Ah  !  who  can  paint  that  hard  and  heavy  time. 
When  first  the  scholar  lists  in  Learning's  train. 
And  mounts  her  rugged  steep,  enforced  to  climb, 
Like  sooty  imp,  by  sharp  posterior  pain 


THE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER, 

From  bloody  twig,  and  eke  that  Indian  cane^ 
Wherein,  alas  !  no  sugar'd  juices  dwell  ; 
For  this,  the  while  one  stripling's  sluices  drain. 
Another  weepeth  over  chilblains  fell. 
Always  upon  the  heel,  yet  never  to  be  well! 

XVIII. 

Anon  a  third,  for  his  delicious  root, 
Late  ravisli'd  from  his  tooth  by  elder  chit- 
So  soon  is  human  violence  afoot, 
So  hardly  is  the  harmless  biter  bit  ! 
Meanwhile,  the  tyrant,  with  untimely  wit 
And  mouthing  face,  deride's  the  small  one's  moan, 
Who,  all  lamenting  for  his  loss,  doth  sit  ; — 
Alack  !  mischance  comes  seldomtimes  alone, 
But  aye  the  worried  dog  must  rue  more  curs  than  on& 

XIX. 

For  lo  !  the  Pedagogue,  with  sudden  drub, 
Smites  his  scald-head,  that  is  already  sore, — 
Superfluous  wound,— such  is  Misfortune's  rub?     • 
Who  straight  makes  answer  with  redoubled  roar, 
And  sheds  salt  tears  twice  faster  than  before, 
That  still  with  backward  fist  he  strives  to  dry; 
Washing,  with  brackish  moisture,  o'er  and  o'er. 
His  muddy  cheek,  that  grows  more  foul  thereby, 
Till  all  his  rainy  face  looks  grim  as  rainy  sky, 

XX. 

So  D;in,  by  dint  of  noise,  obtains  a  peace^ 
And,  with  his  natural  untender  knack, 
By  new  distress  bids  former  grievance  ceas^ 
Like  tears  dried  up  with  rugged  huckaback, 
That  sets  the  mournful  visage  all  awrack. 
Yet  soon  the  childish  countenance  will  shine^ 
Even  as  thorough  storms  the  soonest  slack  ; 
For  grief  and  beef  in  adverse  ways  incline — 
This  keeps,  and  that  decays,  when  duly  soak'd  in  brina 

XXI. 

Now  all  is  hush'd,  and  with  a  look  profound. 
The  Dominie  lays  ope  the  learned  page  ; 
(So  be  it  call'd)  althou-h  he  doth  expound 
Without  a  book,  both  Greek  and  Latin  sage; 
Now  telleth  he  of  Rome's  rude  infant  age. 
How  Romulus  was  bred  in  savage  wood, 
By  wet-nurse  wolf,  devoid  of  wolfish  rage  ; 
And  laid  foundation-stone  of  wall?  of  mud, 
But  ;vater'd  it,  alas  !  with  warm  fraternal  blood. 


THE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER. 


x67 


XXII. 

Anon,  he  turns  to  that  Homeric  war, 
How  Troy  was  sieged  like  Londonderry  town  ; 
And  stout  Achilles  at  his  jaunting-car 
Dra>4g'd  migluy  Hector  with  a  bloody  crown: 
And  eke  ilie  bard  that  sung  of  tlieir  renown, 
In  garb  of  Greece,  most  beg^ar-like  and  torn, 
He  paints,  with  coUey,  wandering  up  and  down. 
Because,  at  once,  in  seven  cities  born. 
And  so  of  parish  rights  was  all  his  days  forlorn. 

XXIII. 

Anon,  through  old  mythology  he  goes, 
Of  gods  defunct,  and  all  their  pedigrees  ; 
But  shuns  their  scandalous  amours,  and  shows 
How  Plato  wise,  and  clear-eyed  Socrates, 


"  Oh,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life.'* 

Confess'd  not  to  those  heathen  hes  and  shes  ; 
But  through  the  clouds  of  the  Olympic  cope 
Beheld  St  Peter,  with  his  holy  keys, 
And  owii'd  their  love  was  naught,  and  bow'd  to  Pope, 
Whilst  all  their  purblind  race  in  Pagan  mist  did  grope  \ 


XXIV. 


From  such  quaint  themes  he  turns,  at  last,  aside, 
To  new  philosophies,  that  still  are  green, 


|68  TBE  IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER. 

And  shows  what  railroads  have  been  track'd  to  guide 
The  wheels  of  great  political  machine  ; 
If  English  corn  should  go  abroad,  I  ween, 
And  gold  be  made  of  gold,  or  piper  sheet ; 
How  many  pigs  be  born  to  each  spalpeen  ; 
And,  ah  !  how  man  shall  thrive  beyond  his  meat,—' 
With  twenty  souls  ahve  to  one  square  sod  of  peat ! 


XXV. 

Here  he  makes  end  ;  and  all  the  fry  of  youth, 
That  stood  around  with  serious  look  intense,  ^ 

Close  up  again  their  gaping  eyes  and  mouth, 
Which  they  had  open'd  to  his  eloquence, 
As  if  their  hearing  were  a  threefold  sense. 
But  now  the  current  of  his  words  is  done, 
And  whether  any  fruits  shall  spring  from  thence^ 
In  future  time,  with  any  mother's  son. 
It  is  a  thing,  God  wot!  that  can  be  told  by  none 

XXVI. 

Now  by  the  creeping  shadows  of  the  noon, 
The  hour  is  come  to  lay  aside  their  lore  ; 
The  cheerful  Pedagogue  ptrceives  it  soon. 
And  cries,  "  Begone  !"  unto  the  imps, — and  four 
Snatch  their  two  hats,  and  struggle  for  the  door, 
Like  ardent  spirits  vented  from  a  cask, 
All  blithe  and  boisterous, — but  leave  two  more, 
With  Reading  made  Uneasy  for  a  task. 
To  weep,  whilst  all  their  mates  in  merry  sunshine  baslt 

XXVII. 

Like  sportive  Elfins,  on  the  verdant  sod, 
With  tender  moss  so  sleekly  overgrown. 
That  doth  not  hurt,  but  kiss,  the  sole  unshod— 
So  soothly  kind  is  Erin  to  her  own  ! 
And  one  at  Hare  and  Hound  plays  all  alone,— 
For  Phelim's  gone  to  tend  his  step-dame's  cow; 
Ah !  Phelim's  step-dame  is  a  canker'd  crone  ! 
Whilst  other  twain  play  at  an  Irish  row, 
And,  with  shillelah  small,  breaic  one  another's  brow! 

XXVIII. 

But  careful  Dominie,  with  ceaseless  thrift. 
Now  changeth  ferula  for  rural  hoe  ; 
But,  first  of  all,  with  tender  hand  doth  shift 
His  college  gown,  because  of  solar  glow, 


THE  SEAS  PELL, 

And  hangs  it  on  a  bush,  to  scare  the  crow  '. 
Meanwhile,  he  plants  in  earth  the  dappled  bean, 
Or  trains  the  young  potatoes  all  a-row, 
Or  plucks  the  fragrant  leek  for  potta^je  green, 
With  that  crisp  curly  herb,  call'd  Kale  in  Aberdeen. 

XXIX. 

And  so  he  wisely  spends  the  fruitful  hours, 
Link"d  each  to  eacn  by  labour,  like  a  bee; 
Or  rules  in  Learning's  hall,  or  trims  her  bowers  ;— 
Would  there  were  many  more  such  wights  as  he, 
To  sway  each  capital  academie 
Of  Cam  and  Isis  ;  for,  alack  !  at  each 
There  dwells,  I  wot,  some  dronish  Dominie, 
That  does  no  garden  work,  nor  yet  doth  teach, 
But  wears  a  floury  head,  and  talks  in  flowery  speech  t 


169 


Fandeans. 


THE  SEA-SPELL. 

'^Cemld,  eauid,  he  lies  beneath  the  Aet:'p."—Old  Scoich  Ballot 
I. 

It  was  a  jolly  mariner. 

The  tallest  man  of  three, — 

He  loosed  his  sail  against  the  wind, 

And  turn'd  his  boat  to  sea  : 

The  ink-black  sky  told  every  eye 

A  storm  was  soon  to  be  ! 


I70  THE  SEA-SPELL, 


II. 


But  still  that  jolly  mariner 

Took  in  no  reef  at  all, 

For,  in  his  pouch,  confidingly, 

He  wore  a  baby's  c;iul  ; 

A  thing,  as  gossip  nurses  know, 

That  always  brings  a  squall  1 

III. 

His  hat  was  new,  or  newly  glazed, 

Shone  bri^ihtly  in  the  sun  ; 

His  jacket,  like  a  mariner's, 

True  blue  as  e'er  was  spun  ; 

His  ample  trousers,  like  Saint  Paul, 

Bore  forty  stripes  save  one. 

IV. 

And  now  the  fretting  foaming  tide 

He  steer'd  away  to  cross  ; 

The  bounding  pinnace  play'd  a  game 

Of  dreary  pitch  and  toss — 

A  game  that,  on  the  good  dry  land, 

Is  apt  to  bring  a  loss  ! 


Good  Heaven  befriend  that  little  boa^ 

And  guide  her  on  her  way  ! 

A  boat,  they  say,  has  canvas  wings. 

But  cannot  fly  away, 

Though,  like  a  merry  singing  bird. 

She  sits  upon  the  spray ! 

VI. 

Still  east  by  east  the  little  boat 

With  tawny  sail  kept  beating  : 

Now  out  of  sight  between  two  waves. 

Now  o'er  th'  horizon  fleeting  : 

Like  greedy  swine  that  feed  on  mast, 

The  waves  her  mast  seem'd  eating  1 

VII. 

The  sullen  sky  grew  black  above, 

The  wave  as  bl  ick  beneath  ; 

Each  roaring  billow  show'd  full  soon 

A  white  and  foamy  wreath, 

Like  angry  dogs,  that  snarl  at  first, 

And  then  display  their  teeth. 


THE  SEA-SPELL. 


171 


VIII. 

The  boatman  look'd  against  the  wind, 

The  mast  began  10  creak, 

The  wave,  per  saltum,  came  and  dried, 

In  salt,  ui  on  his  cheek  ! 

The  pointed  wave  against  him  rear'd, 

As  if  it  own'd  a  pique  ! 

IX. 

Nor  rushing  wind,  nor  gushing  wave. 
That  boatman  could  alarm, 


"  De  Gustibus  non  est  disputandum." 

But  Still  he  stood  away  to  sea, 
And  trusted  in  his  charm  ; 
He  thought  by  purchase  he  was  safe, 
And  arm'd  against  all  harm  ! 


Now  thick  and  fast  and  far  aslant 
The  stormy  rain  came  pouring  ; 
He  heard  upon  the  sandy  bank 
The  distant  breakers  roaring — 
A  groaning  intermitting  sound, 
Like  Gog  and  Magog  snoring  I 


lya  THE  SEA-SPELL. 


XI. 


The  seafowl  shriek'd  around  the  mas^ 

Ahead  the  grampus  tumbled, 

And  far  off,  from  a  copper  cloud, 

The  hollow  thunder  rumbled  ; 

It  would  have  quail'd  another  hear^ 

But  his  was  never  humbled. 


XII. 

For  why?  he  had  that  infant's  caul  ; 
And  wherefore  should  he  dread? — > 
Alas  !  alas  !  he  little  thought, 
Before  the  ebb-tide  sped, 
That,  like  that  infant,  he  should  die. 
And  with  a  watery  head  1 

XIII. 

The  rushing  brine  flow'd  in  apace  ; 

His  boat  had  ne'er  a  deck  ; 

Fate  seem'd  to  call  him  on,  and  he 

Attended  to  her  beck  ; 

And  so  he  went,  still  trusting  on, 

Though  reckless — to  his  wreck  1 

XIV. 

For  as  he  left  his  helm,  to  heave 

The  ballast  bags  a-weather, 

Three  monstrous  seas  came  roaring  on« 

Like  lions  leagued  together. 

The  two  first  waves  the  little  boat 

Swam  over  like  a  feather. — 

XV. 

The  two  first  waves  were  past  and  gone^ 

And  sinking  in  her  wake  ; 

The  hugest  still  came  leaping  on, 

And  hissing  like  a  snake. 

Mow  helm  a-lee  !  for  through  the  midit. 

The  monster  he  must  take  I 

XVI. 

Ah  me  f  it  was  a  dreary  mount  t 
Its  base  as  black  as  night. 
Its  top  of  pale  and  livid  green, 
Its  crest  of  awful  white, 
Like  Neptune  with  a  leprosy,— 
And  so  it.rear'd  upright ! 


THE  SEA.SPELL.  173 


XVII. 


With  quaking  sails  the  little  boat 
Climb'd  up  the  foaming  heap  ; 
With  quakiny  sails  it  paused  awhile, 
At  balance  on  the  steep  ; 
Then  rushing  down  the  nether  slope, 
Plunged  with  a  dizzy  sweep  I 

XVIII. 

Look  how  a  horse,  made  mad  with  fear, 

Disdains  his  careful  guide; 

So  now  the  headlong  headstrong  boat, 

Unmanaged,  turns  aside, 

And  straight  presents  her  reeling  flank 

Against  the  swelling  tide  1 

XIX. 

The  gusty  wind  assaults  the  sail ; 
Her  ballast  Ues  a-lee  ! 
The  windward  sheet  is  taut  and  stiff  I 
Oh  !  the  '  Lively  '—where  is  she  ? 
Her  capsized  keel  is  in  the  foam, 
Her  pennon's  in  the  sea  I 

XX. 

The  wild  gull,  sailing  overhead, 
Three  times  beheld  emerge 
The  head  of  that  bold  mariner, 
And  then  she  scream'd  his  dirge  I 
For  he  had  sunk  within  his  grave, 
Lapp'd  in  a  shroud  of  surge  I 

XXI. 

The  ensuing  wave,  with  horrid  foam, 
Rush'd  o'er  and  cover'd  all, — 
The  jolly  boatman's  drowning  scream 
Was  smotherd  by  the  squall: 
Heaven  never  heard  his  cry,  nor  did 
\kti  ocean  heed  his  caul  I 


174 


"A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 


FAITHLESS  NELL  V  GRA  Y, 

A   PATHETIC   BALLAD. 

Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms  ; 

But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms  ! 

Now  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot, 

For  here  I  leave  mv  second  leg 
And  the  Forty-Second  Footi  " 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs  ; 

Said  he,  "  They're  only  pegs  : 
But  there's  as  wooden  members  quite, 

As  represent  my  legs  !  " 

Now  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid. 
Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray; 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 
When  he'd  devour'd  his  pay  ! 

But  when  he  call'd  on  Nelly  Gray, 
She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs. 
Began  to  take  them  off ! 


FAITHLESS  NELL  Y  GRA  Y.  «T5 

•'O  Nelly  Gray!  O  Nelly  Gray  I 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform  ! " 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once^ 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave ; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave  1 

•Before  you  had  those  timber  toes. 

Your  love  I  did  allow  ; 
But  then,  you  know  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  now  ! " 

«  O  Nelly  Gray  !  O  Nelly  Gray  I 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call,  I  left  my  legs 

In  Badajoz's  breaches  I" 

•  Why,  then,"  said  she,  "  you've  lost  the  fee* 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
^nd  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms  ! " 

«*  Oh,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray  ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse  : — 
Though  I've  no  feet,  some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes  ! 

•*  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face  ; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell  1 
For  you  will  be  my  death  ; — alas  t 

You  will  not  be  my  Ne///  " 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got, 
And  life  was  such  a  burthen  grown. 

It  made  him  take  a  knot  1 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  lifCi 

Enlisted  in  the  Line  ! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs. 
And,  as  his  legs  were  off, — of  course^ 

He  soon  was  ofif  his  legs  ! 


1 76  FANC  Y  FOR  TRAITS. 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town,^ 
For  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 
To  find  out  vvhv  he  died — 

And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 
With  a  stake  in  his  inside  ! 


The  liard  of  Hope 


FANCY  PORTRAITS. 


MANY  authors  preface  their  works  with  a  portrait,  and  it  saves 
the  reader  a  deal  of  speculation.  The  world  loves  to  know 
something  of  the  features  of  its  favourites  ; — it  likes  the  Geniuses  to 
appear  bodily,  as  well  as  the  Genii.  We  may  estimate  the  liveliness 
ot  this  curiosity  by  the  abundance  of  portraits,  masks,  busts,  china 
and  [blaster  casts,  that  are  extant,  of  great  or  would-be  great  people. 
As  soon  as  a  gentleman  has  proved,  in  print,  th  it  he  really  has  a 
head,  a  score  of  artists  beirin  to  brush  at  it.  The  literary  lions  have 
no  peace  to  their  manes.  Sir  Walter  is  eternally  sitting  like  Theseus 
to  some  painter  or  other;  and  the  late  Lord  Byron  threw  out  more 
heads  betore  he  died  than  Hydra.  The  first  novel  of  Mr  Gait  had 
barely  been  announced  in  the  second  edition,  when  he  was  requested 


FANCY  PORTRAITS. 


177 


to  allow  himself  to  be  taken  "in  one  minute  ;" — Mr  Geoffrey  Crayon 
was  no  sooner  known  to  be  Mr  Washington  Irving,  than  he  was 
waited  upon  with  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pair  of  scissors. 

The  whole  world,  in  fact,  is  one  Lavater  : — it  likes  to^find  its  pre- 
judices confirmed  by  the  Hooke  nose  of  the  author  of  "  Sayings  and 
Doings  " — or  the  lines  and  angles  in  the  honest  face  of  Izaak  Walton. 
It  is  gratified  in  dwelling  on  the  repulsive  features  of  a  Newgate 
ordinary  ;  and  would  be  disappointed  to  miss  the  seraphic  expression 
on  the  author  of  the  "  Angel  of  the  World.''  The  Old  Bailey  jurymen 
are  physiognomists  to  a  fault  ;  and  if  a  rope  can  transform  a  male- 
factor into  an  Adonis,  a  hard  gallows  face  as  often  brings  the  malefactor 
to  the  rope.  A  low  forehead  is  enough  to  bring  down  its  head  to  the 
dust     A  well-favoured  man  meets  with  good  countenance  ;  but  when 


Mr  Crabbe. 


people  are  plain  and  hard-featured  (like  the  poor,  for  instance),  we 
grind  their  faces  ;  an  expression,  I  am  convinced,  that  refers  to  phy- 
siognomical theory. 

For  my  part,  I  confess  a  sympathy  with  the  common  failing.  I 
take  likings  and  dislikings,  as  some  play  music, — at  sight.  The  polar 
attractions  and  repulsions  insisted  on  by  the  phrenologist,  affect  me 
not ;  but  I  am  not  proof  against  a  pleasant  or  villainous  set  of  features. 
Sometimes,  I  own,  I  am  led  by  the  nose  (not  my  own,  but  that  of  the 
other  party) — in  my  prepossessions. 

My  curiosity  does  not  object  to  the  disproportionate  number  of  por- 
traits in  the  annual  exhibition, — nor  grudge  the  expense  of  engrav- 
ing a  gentleman's  head  and  shoulders.  Like  Judith,  and  the  daughter 
of  Herodias,  I  have  a  taste  for  a  head  in  a  plate,  and  accede  cheerfully 
to  the  charge  of  the  charger.  A  book  without  a  portrait  of  the  author 
is  worse  than  anonymous.  As  in  a  churchyard,  you  may  look  on 
any  number  of  ribs  and  shin-bones  as  so  many  sticks  merely,  without 
interest ,  but  if  there  should  chance  to  be  a  skull  near  hand,  it  claims 

M 


178 


FANCY  PORTRAITS. 


the  relics  at  once, — so  it  is  with  the  author's  headpiece  in  front  of  his 
pages.  The  portrait  claims  the  work.  The  "Arcadia,"  for  instance,  I 
know  is  none  of  mine — it  belongs  to  that  young  fair  gentleman  in 
armour  with  a  rufif ! 

So  necessary  it  is  for  me  to  have  an  outward  visible  sign  of  the 
inward  spiritual  poet  or  philosopher,  that  in  default  of  an  authentic 


Mr  Bowles. 

resemblance,  I  cannot  help  forging  for  him  an  effigy  in  my  mind's 
eye, — a  Fancy  Portrait.  A  few  examples  of  contemporaries  I  have 
sketched  down,  but  my  collection  is  far  from  complete. 

How  have  I  longed"  to  ohmpse,  in  fancy,  the  Great  Unknown  ! — 
the  Roc  of  Literature  ! — but  he  keeps  his  head,  like  Ben  Lomond, 
enveloped  in  a  cloud.  How  have  I  sighed  for  a  beau  ideal  of  the 
author  of  "  Christabel"  and  the  "Ancient  Marinere  !"— but  I  have  been 
mocked  with  a  dozen  images  confusing  each  other,  and  indistinct  as 


The  Author  of  "  Broad  Grins." 


water  is  in  water.  My  only  clear  revelation  was  a  pair  of  Hessian 
boots  highly  polished,  or  what  the  ingenious  Mr  Warren  would 
denominate  his  "  Aids  to  Reflection  ! " 

1    was    more    certain    of   the    figure,   at   least,   of   Dr    Kitchener, 
though  I  had  a  mi->givin^4  about  nis  features,  which  made  me  have 


FANCY  PORTRAITS. 


179 


recourse  to  a  substitute  for  his  head.  Moore's  profile  struck  me  over 
a  bottle  after  dinner,  and  the  countenance  of  Mr  Bowles  occurred  to 
me,  as  in  a  mirror, — by  a  tea-table  suggestion  ;  Colman's  at  the  same 
service  ; — and  Mr  Crabbe  entered  my  mind's  eye  with  the  supper. 
But  the  Bard  of  Hope — the  Laureate  of  promise  and  expectation, — 
occurred  to  me  at  no  meal-time.  We  all  know  how  Hope  feeds  her 
own. 

I  had  a  lively  image  of  the  celebrated  Denon  in  a  midnight  dream, 
and  made  out  the  full  length  of  the  juvenile  Graham  from  a  hint  of 
Mr  Hilton's. 

At  a  future  season,  I  hope  to  complete  my  gallery  of  Fancy  Por- 
traits. 


Auctcrcon,  Juoior. 


WHIMS   AND   ODDITIES. 


(SECOND  SERIES,  1 827.) 


"  What  Demon  hath  possessed  thee,  that  thou  wilt  never  forsake  that  impertinent  custom 

of  punning  1" — ScRlBi.EKUS. 


PREF A  CE. 

IN  the  absence  of  better  fiddles,  I  have  ventured  to  come  forward 
again  with  my  little  kit  of  fancies.  I  trust  it  will  not  be  found 
an  unworthy  sequel  to  my  first  performance  ;  indeed,  I  have  done  my 
best,  in  the  New  Series,  innocently  to  imitate  a  practice  that  prevails 
abroad  in  duelling — I  mean,  that  of  the  seconds  giving  satisfaction. 

The  kind  indulgence  that  welcomed  my  voiv.me  heretofore,  prevents 
me  from  reiterating  the  same  apologies.  The  public  have  learned  by 
this  time,  from  my  rude  designs,  that  I  am  no  great  artist,  and  from 
my  text,  that  I  am  no  great  author,  but  humbly  equivocating,  batlike, 
between  the  two  kinds  ; — though  proud  to  partake  in  any  character- 
istic of  either.  As  for  the  first  particular,  my  hope  persuades  me  that 
my  illustrations  cannot  have  degenerated,  so  ably  as  I  have  been 
seconded  by  Mr  Edward  Willis,  who,  like  the  humane  Walter,  has 
befriended  my  offspring  in  the  Wuod. 


PREFACE. 


iSl 


In  the  literary  part  I  have  to  plead  guilty,  as  usual,  to  some  verbal 
misdemeanours  ;  for  which  I  must  leave  my  defence  to  Dean  Swift, 
and  the  other  great  European  and  Oriental  Pundits.  Let  me  suggest, 
however,  that  a  pun  is  somewhat  like  a  cherry  :  though  there  may  be 


a  slight  outward  indication  of  partition — of  duplicity  of  meaning — yet 
no  gentleman  need  make  two  bites  at  it  against  his  own  pleasure.  To 
accommodate  certain  readers,  notwithstanding,  I  have  refrained  from 
putting  the  majority  in  italics.  It  is  not  every  one,  I  am  aware,  that 
can  Toler-ate  a  pun  like  my  Lord  Norbury. 


1 82 

BIANCA'S  DREAM, 

A  VENETIAN  STORY. 


BlANCA  ! — ^fair  Bianca  ! — who  could  dwell 
With  safety  on  her  dark  and  hazel  gaze, 

Nor  find  there  lurk'd  in  it  a  witching  spell, 
Fatal  to  balmy  nights  and  blessed  days  ? 

The  peaceful  breath  that  made  the  bosom  swell. 
She  tufn'd  to  gas,  and  set  it  in  a  blaze  ; 

Each  eye  of  hers  had  Love's  Eupyrion  in  it, 

That  he  could  light  his  link  at  in  a  minute. 


n. 

So  that,  wherever  in  her  charms  she  shone, 
A  thousand  breasts  were  kindled  into  flame  ; 

Maidens  who  cursed  her  looks  forgot  their  own, 

And  beaux  were  turn'd  to  flambeaux  where  she  c^me ; 

AH  hearts  indeed  were  conquer'd  but  her  own. 
Which  none  could  ever  temper  down  or  tame  : 

In  short,  to  take  our  haberdasher's  hints, 

She  might  have  written  over  it, — "  from  Flint's.** 


IIL 

She  was,  in  truth,  the  wonder  of  her  sex, 

At  least  in  Venice — where,  with  eyes  of  brown, 

Tenderly  languid,  ladies  seldom  vex 

An  amorous  gentle  with  a  needless  frown  ; 

Where  gondolas  convey  guitars  by  pecks, 

And  Love  at  casements  climbeth  up  and  down, 

Whom,  for  his  tricks  and  custom  in  that  kind, 

Some  have  consider'd  a  Venetian  blind. 


IV, 

Howbeit,  this  difference  was  quickly  taught, 
Amongst  more  youths  who  had  this  cruel  jailor, 

To  hapless  Julio — all  in  vain  he  sought 

With  each  new  moon  his  hatter  and  his  tailor  ; 

In  vain  the  richest  padusoy  he  bought, 

And  went  in  bran  new  beaver  to  assail  her — 

As  if  to  show  that  Love  had  made  him  sfnart 

All  over — and  not  merely  round  his  heart; 


BIANCA'S  DREAM.  183 


V. 


In  vain  he  labour'd  thro'  the  sylvan  park 
Bianca  haunted  in — that  where  she  came, 

Her  learned  eyes  in  wandering  might  mark 
The  twisted  cipher  of  her  maiden  name, 

Wholesomely  going  thro'  a  course  of  bark  : 
No  one  was  touch'd  or  troubled  by  his  flame, 

Except  the  dryads,  those  old  maids  that  grow 

In  trees, — like  wooden  dolls  in  embryo. 

VI. 

In  vain  complaining  elegies  he  writ, 
And  taught  his  tuneful  instrument  to  grieve, 

And  sang  in  quavers  how  his  heart  was  split, 
Constant  beneath  her  lattice  with  each  eve  ; 

She  mock'd  his  wooing  with  her  wiclced  wit, 
And  slash'd  his  suit  so  that  it  match'd  his  sleeve^ 

Till  he  grew  silent  at  the  vesper  star, 

And,  quite  despairing,  hamstring'd  his  guitar. 

VII. 

Bianca's  heart  was  coldly  frosted  o'er 

With  snows  unmelting — an  eternal  sheet; 

But  his  was  red  withm  him,  like  the  core 
Of  old  Vesuvius,  with  perpetual  heat ; 

And  oft  he  long'd  internally  to  pour 

His  flames  and  glowing  lava  at  her  feet ; 

But  when  his  burnings  he  began  to  spout, 

She  stopp'd  his  mouth,  and  put  the  crater  out. 


VIII. 

Meanwhile  he  wasted  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
So  thin,  he  seem'd  a  sort  of  skeleton-key 

Suspended  at  Death's  door— so  pale — and  then 
He  turn'd  as  nervous  as  an  aspen-tree  ; 

The  life  of  man  is  threescore  years  and  ten. 
But  he  was  perishing  at  twenty-three  ; 

For  people  truly  said,  as  grief  grew  stronger, 

**  It  could  not  shorten  his  poor  Ufe— much  longer. 


IX. 

For  why— he  neither  slept,  nor  drank,  nor  fed, 
Nor  relish'd  any  kind  of  mirth  below  ; 

Fire  in  his  heart,  and  frenzy  in  his  head. 
Love  had  become  his  universal  foe, 


,84  BIANCA'S  DREAM. 

Salt  in  his  sugar— nightmare  in  his  bed. 

At  last,  no  wonder  wretched  Julio, 
A  sorrow-ridden  thing,  in  utter  dearth 
Of  hope — made  up  his  mind  to  cut  her  girth  I 

X. 

For  hapless  lovers  always  died  of  old. 
Sooner  than  chew  reflection's  bitter  cud  ; 

So  Thisbe  stuck  herself,  what  time  'tis  told 
The  tender-hearted  mulberries  wept  blood  ; 

And  so  poor  Sappho,  when  her  boy  was  cold, 
Drown'd  her  salt  tear-drops  in  a  salter  flood, — 

Their  fame  still  breathing,  tho'  their  breath  be  past, 

For  those  old  suitors  lived  beyond  their  last. 

XI. 

So  Julio  went  to  drown,  when  life  was  dull, 
But  took  his  corks,  and  merely  had  a  bath  ; 

And  once  he  puU'd  a  trigger  at  his  skull, 
But  merely  broke  a  window  in  his  wrath ; 

And  once,  his  hopeless  being  to  annul, 
He  tied  a  packthread  to  a  beam  of  lath, 

A  hne  so  ample,  'twas  a  query  whether 

'Twas  meant  to  be  a  halter  or  a  tether. 

XII. 

Smile  not  in  scorn,  that  Julio  did  not  thrust 
His  sorrows  thro'— 'tis  horrible  to  die  ! 

And  come  down  with  our  little  all  of  dust, 
That  dun  of  all  the  duns  to  satisfy  : 

To  leave  life's  pleasant  city  as  we  must, 

In  Death's  most  dreary  spunging-house  to  U^ 

Where  even  all  our  personals  must  go 

To  pay  the  debt  of  Nature  that  we  owe  I 

XIII. 

So  Julio  lived  -.—'twas  nothing  but  a  pet 
He  took  at  life — a  momentary  spite  ; 

Besides,  he  hoped  that  time  would  some  day  get 
The  better  of  love's  flame,  however  bright ; 

A  thing  that  time  has  never  compass'd  yet, 
For  love,  we  know,  is  an  immortal  light ; 

Like  that  old  fire,  that,  quite  beyond  a  doubt, 

Was  always  in, — for  none  have  found  it  out. 

XIV. 

Meanwhile,  Bianca  dream'd— 'twas  once  when  Night 
Along  the  darken'd  plain  began  to  creep, 


BIANCA'S  DREAM.  1S5 

Like  a  young  Hottentot,  whose  eyes  are  bright, 

Altho'  in  skin  as  sooty  as  a  sweep  : 
The  flowers  had  shut  their  eyes — the  zephyr  light 

Was  gone,  for  it  had  rock'd  the  leaves  to  sleep ; 
And  all  the  little  birds  had  laid  their  heads 
Under  their  wings — sleeping  in  feather  beds. 


XV. 

Lone  in  her  chamber  sate  the  dark-eyed  maid, 
By  easy  stages  jaunting  thro'  her  prayers. 

But  listening  sidelong  to  a  serenade. 
That  robb'd  the  saints  a  little  of  their  shares : 

For  Julio  underneath  the  lattice  play'd 
His  Deh  Vieni,  and  such  amorous  airs, 

Bom  only  underneath  Italian  skies, 

Where  every  fiddle  has  a  Bridge  of  Sighs, 

XVL 

Sweet  was  the  tune— the  words  were  even  sweeter- 
Praising  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  nose,  her  hair, 

With  all  the  common  tropes  wherewith  in  metre 
The  hackney  poets  overcharge  their  fair. 

Her  shape  was  like  Diana's,  but  completer  ; 

Her  brow  with  Grecian  Helen's  might  compare : 

Cupid,  alas  !  was  cruel  Sagittarius, 

Julio — the  weeping  water-man  Aquarius, 

XVII. 

Now,  after  listing  to  such  landings  rare — 

'Twas  very  natural  indeed  to  go — 
What  if  she  did  postpone  one  little  prayer 

To  ask  her  mirror,  "  if  it  was  not  so  ?" 
'Twas  a  large  mirror,  none  the  worse  for  wear, 

Reflecting  her  at  once  from  top  to  toe  : 
And  there  she  gazed  upon  that  glossy  track, 
That  show'd  her  front  face  tho'  it  "  gave  her  back.* 

XVIII. 

And  long  her  lovely  eyes  were  held  in  thrall. 
By  that  dear  page  where  first  the  woman  reads: 

That  Julio  was  no  flatterer,  none  at  all. 

She  told  herself— and  then  she  told  her  beads  ; 

Meanwhile,  the  nerves  insensibly  let  fall 
Two  curtains  fairer  than  the  lily  breeds  ; 

For  Sleep  had  crept  and  kiss'd  her  unawares, 

Just  at  the  half-way  milestone  of  her  prayers. 


I86  STANCA'S  DREAM, 


XIX. 

Then  like  a  drooping  rose  so  bended  she, 
Till  her  bow'd  head  upon  her  hand  reposed ; 

But  still  she  plainly  saw,  or  seem'd  to  see, 
That  fair  reflexion,  tho'  her  eyes  were  closed, 

A  beauty  bright  as  it  was  wont  to  be, 
A  portrait  Fancy  painted  while  she  dozed  : 

'Tis  very  natural,  some  people  say, 

To  dream  of  what  we  dwell  on  in  the  day. 


XX. 

Still  shone  her  face — yet  not,  alas  !  the  same, 

But  'gan  some  dreary  touches  to  assume, 
And  sadder  thoughts,  with  sadder  changes  came — 

Her  eyes  resign'd  their  light,  her  lips  their  bloom. 
Her  teeth  fell  out,  her  tresses  did  the  same, 

Her  cheeks  were  tinged  with  bile,  her  eyes  with  rheum  I 
There  was  a  throbbing  at  her  heart  within. 
For,  oh  !  there  was  a  shooting  in  her  chin. 


XXI. 

And  lo  I  upon  her  sad,  desponding  brow, 

The  cruel  trenches  of  besieging  age, 
With  seams,  but  most  unseemly,  'gan  to  show 

Her  place  was  booking  for  the  seventh  stage ; 
And  where  her  raven  tresses  used  to  flow, 

Some  locks  that  Time  had  left  her  in  his  rage, 
And  some  mock  ringlets,  made  her  forehead  shady, 
A  compound  (like  our  Psalms)  of  tete  and  braidy. 


XXIL 

Then  for  her  shape — alas  !  how  Saturn  wrecks. 
And  bends,  and  corkscrews  all  the  frame  about, 

Doubles  the  hams,  and  crooks  the  straightest  necks. 
Draws  in  the  nape,  and  pushes  forth  the  snout, 

Makes  backs  and  stomachs  concave  or  convex  ; 
Witness  those  pensioners  call'd  In  and  Out, 

Who  all  day  watching  first  and  second  rater. 

Quaintly  unbend  themselves — but  grow  no  straighten 

XXIIL 

So  Time  with  fair  Bianca  dealt,  and  made 

Her  shape  a  bow,  that  once  was  like  an  arrow; 

His  iron  hand  upon  her  spine  he  laid. 
And  twisted  all  awry  her  "  winsome  marrow." 


BIAA'CA'S  DREAM. 

In  truth  it  wns  a  change  ! — she  had  obey'd 

The  holy  Pope  before  her  chest  grew  narrow, 
But  spectacles  and  palsy  seem'd  to  make  her 
Something  between  a  Glassite  and  a  Quakec 


187 


In  and  Out  Pensioners. 


XXJV. 


Her  grief  and  gall  meanwhile  were  quite  extreme, 
And  she  had  ample  reason  for  her  trouble  ; 

For  what  sad  maiden  can  endure  to  seem 
Set  in  for  singleness,  tho'  growing  double. 

The  fancy  madden'd  her  ;  but  now  the  dream, 
Grown  thin  by  getting  bigger,  like  a  bubble, 

Burst, — but  still  left  some  fragments  of  its  size, 

That,  like  the  soapsuds,  smarted  in  her  eyes. 


XXV. 

And  here — ^Just  here — as  she  began  to  heed 

The  real  world,  her  clock  chimed  out  its  score  ; 

A  clock  it  was  of  the  Venetian  breed. 

That  cried  the  hour  from  one  to  twenty-four  ; 

The  works  moreover  standing  in  some  need 
Of  workmanship,  it  struck  some  dozens  more  } 

A  warning  voice  that  clench'd  Bianca's  fears, 

Such  strokes  referring  doubtless  to  her  years. 


I88  BIANCA'S  DREAM, 


XXVI. 


At  fifteen  chimes  she  was  but  half  a  nun, 

By  twenty  she  had  quite  renounced  the  veil ; 

She  thought  of  Julio  just  at  twenty-one, 
And  thirty  made  her  very  sad  and  pale, 

To  paint  that  ruin  where  her  charms  would  nin  ; 
At  forty  all  the  maid  began  to  fail, 

And  thought  no  higher,  as  the  late  dream  cross'd  her, 

Of  single  blessedness,  than  single  Gloster. 

XXVII. 

And  so  Bianca  changed  ;— the  next  sweet  even. 

With  Julio  in  a  black  Venetian  bark, 
Row'd  slow  and  stealthily— the  hour,  eleven, 

Just  sounding  from  the  tower  of  old  St  Mark. 
She  sate  with  eyes  turn'd  quietly  to  heaven, 

Perchance  rejoicing  in  the  grateful  dark 
That  veil'd  her  blushing  cheek, — for  Julio  brought  her. 
Of  course — to  break  the  ice  upon  the  water. 

XXVIII. 

But  what  a  puzzle  is  one's  serious  mind 
To  open  ; — oysters,  when  the  ice  is  thick, 

Are  not  so  difficult  and  disinclined  ; 
And  Julio  felt  the  declaration  stick 

About  his  Throat  in  a  most  awful  kind  ; 
However,  he  contrived  by  bits  to  pick 

His  trouble  forth, — much  like  a  rotten  cork 

Groped  from  a  long-neck'd  bottle  with  a  fork. 

XXIX. 

But  love  is  still  the  quickest  of  all  readers  ; 

And  Julio  spent  besides  those  signs  profuse 
That  English  tele:^raphs  and  foreign  pleaders, 

In  help  of  language,  are  so  apt  to  use  ; 
Arms,  shoulders,  lingers,  all  were  interceders, 

Nods,  shrugs,  and  bends, — Bianca  could  not  choose 
But  soften  to  his  suit  with  more  facility, 
He  told  his  story  with  so  much  agility. 

XXX. 

*'  Be  thou  my  park,  and  I  will  be  thy  dear, 
(So  he  began  at  last  to  speak  or  quote;) 

Be  thou  my  bark,  and  I  thy  gondolier, 
(For  passion  takes  this  figurative  note ;) 


BIANCA-a  DREAM.  189 

Be  thou  my  light,  and  I  thy  chandelier ; 

Be  thou  my  dove,  and  I  will  be  thy  cote: 
My  lily  be,  and  I  will  be  thy  river  ; 
Be  thou  my  life — and  I  will  be  thy  liver.* 


XXXI. 

This,  with  more  tender  lopic  of  the  kind, 
He  pour'd  into  her  small  and  shell-like  ear, 

That  timidly  against  his  lips  inclined  ; 

Meanwhile  her  eyes  glanced  on  the  silver  sphere 

That  even  now  began  to  steal  behind 

A  dewy  vapour,  which  was  lingering  near, 

Wherein  the  dull  moon  crept  all  dim  and  pale, 

Just  like  a  virgin  putting  on  the  veil : 


XXXII. 

Bidding  adieu  to  all  her  soarks — the  stars, 
That  erst  had  woo'd  and  worshipp'd  in  her  train, 

Saturn  and  Hesperus,  and  gallant  Mars — 
Never  to  flirt  with  heavenly  eyes  again. 

Meanwhile,  remindful  of  the  convent  bars, 
Bianca  did  not  watch  these  signs  m  vain, 

But  turn'd  to  Julio  at  the  dark  eclipse, 

With  words,  like  verbal  kisses,  on  her  lips. 


XXXIII, 

He  took  the  hint  full  speedily,  and,  backed 

By  love,  and  night,  and  the  occasion's  meetness, 

Bestow'd  a  something  on  her  cheek  that  smack'd 
(Tho'  quite  in  silence)  of  ambrosial  sweetness, 

That  made  her  think  all  other  kisses  lack'd 
Till  then,  but  what  she  knew  not,  of  completeness  \ 

Being  used  but  sisterly  salutes  to  feel, 

Insipid  things — like  sandwiches  of  veaL 


XXXIV. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  soon  she  felt  him  wring 

The  pretty  fingers  all  instead  of  one  ; 
Anon  his  stealthy  arm  began  to  cling 

About  her  waist,  that  had  been  clasp'd  by  none  ; 
Their  dear  confessions  I  forbear  to  smg. 

Since  cold  description  would  but  be  outrun : 
For  bliss  and  Irish  watches  have  the  pow'r, 
In  twenty  minutes,  to  lose  half-an-hour  1 


I^O 


A  BALLAD  SINGER 

IS  a  town-crier  for  the  advertising  of  lost  tunes.  Hunger  hath  made 
him  a  wind  instrument :  his  want  is  vocal,  and  not  he.  His  voice 
had  gone  a-begging  before  he  took  it  up  and  applied  it  to  the  same 
trade  ;  it  was  too  strong  to  hawk,  mackerel,  but  was  just  soft  enough 
for  "  Robin  Adair."  H  is  business  is  to  make  popular  songs  unpopular, — 
he  gives  the  air,  like  a  weathercock,  with  many  variations.  As  for  a 
key,  he  has  but  one — a  latch-key — for  all  manner  of  tunes ;  and  as  they 
are  to  pass  current  amongst  the  lower  sorts  of  people,  he  makes  his 
notes  like  a  country  banker's,  as  thick  as  he  can.  His  tones-  have  a 
copper  sound,  for  he  sounds  for  copper;  and  for  the  musical  divisions 
he  hath  no  regard,  but  sings  on,  like  a  kettle,  without  taking  any  heed 
of  the  bars.  Before  beginning,  he  clears  his  pipe  with  gin  ;  and  he  is 
always  hoarse  from  the  thorough  draft  in  his  throat.  He  hath  but  one 
shake,  and  that  is  in  winter.  His  voice  sounds  flat,  from  flatulence  ; 
and  he  fetches  breath,  like  a  drowning  kitten,  whenever  he  can.  Not- 
withstanding all  this,  his  music  gains  ground,  for  it  walks  with  him 
from  end  to  end  of  the  street. 

He  is  your  only  performer  that  requires  not  many  entreaties  for  a 
song  ;  for  he  will  chaunt,  without  asking,  to  a  street  cur  or  a  parish 
post.  His  only  backwardness  is  to  a  stave  after  dinner,  seeing  that  he 
never  dines  ;  for  he  sings  for  bread,  and  though  corn  has  ears,  sings 
very  commonly  in  vain.  As  for  his  country,  he  is  an  Enghshman,  that 
by  his  birthright  may  sing  whether  he  can  or  not.  To  conclude,  he  is 
reckoned  passable  in  the  city,  but  is  not  so  good  off  the  stones. 


191 


"  Gin  a  body  meet  a  body.' 


MAJ^V'S  GHOST. 


A    PATHETIC    BALLAD. 


TwAS  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
To  sleep  young  William  tried, 
When  Mary's  ghost  came  stealing  ia. 
And  stood  at  his  bedside. 


O  William  dear  !  O  William  dear  1 

My  rest  eternal  ceases  ; 
Alas  !  my  everlasting  peace 

Is  broken  into  pieces. 


III. 


I  thought  the  last  of  all  my  cares 
Would  end  with  my  last  minute  ; 

But  though  I  went  to  my  long  home, 
I  didn't  stay  long  in  it. 


19a 


MARY'S  GHOST, 


!▼. 


The  body-snatchers  they  have  come. 
And  made  a  snatch  at  me  ; 

It's  very  hard  them  kind  of  men 
Won  t  let  a  body  be  ! 


V. 


You  thought  that  I  was  buried  deep, 
Quite  decent  like  and  chary, 

But  from  her  grave  in  Mary-bone 
They've  come  and  boned  your  Mary. 


VI. 


The  arm  that  used  to  take  your  arm 

Is  took  to  Dr  Vyse  ; 
And  both  my  legs  are  gone  to  walk 

The  hospital  at  Guy's. 


VII. 


I  vow'd  that  you  should  have  my  han^i 

But  fate  gives  us  denial ; 
You'll  find  it  there,  at  Doctor  Bell'i 

In  spirits  and  a  phial. 


VIII. 


As  for  my  feet,  the  little  feet 
You  used  to  call  so  pretty, 

There's  one,  I  know,  in  Bedford  Row 
The  t'other's  in  the  city. 


IX. 


I  can't  tell  where  my  head  is  gonei 
But  Doctor  Carpue  can  : 

As  for  my  trunk,  it's  all  pack'd  i^ 
To  go  by  Pickford's  van. 


I  wish  you'd  go  to  Mr  P. 

And  save  me  such  a  ride ; 
I  don't  half  like  the  outside  plaCi^ 

They've  took  for  my  inside. 

XI. 

The  cock  it  crows — I  must  be  gonei 
My  William,  we  must  part  ! 

But  I'll  be  yours  in  death,  altho* 
Sir  Astley  has  my  heart. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ART. 


Ida 


XIL 


Don't  go  to  weep  upon  my  grave, 
And  think  that  there  I  be  ; 

They  haven't  left  an  atom  there 
Of  my  anatomic. 


Infant  Genius. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ART. 

I. 

O  HAPPY  time  !  Art's  early  days  ! 

When  o'er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-prais^ 

Narcissus-like  I  hung  ! 
When  great  Rembrandt  but  little  seem'd,. 
And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deem'd 

As  nothing  to  the  young  ! 

II. 

Some  scratchy  strokes — abrupt  and  few,   ' 
So  easily  and  swift  I  drew, 

Sufficed  for  my  design  ; 
My  sketchy,  superficial  hand 
Drew  solids  at  a  dash — and  spann'd 

A  surface  with  a  line. 


N 


194  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ART, 


III. 

Not  long  my  eye  was  thus  contend 
But  grew  more  critical — my  bent 

Essay'd  a  higher  walk  ; 
I  copied  leaden  eyes  in  lead — 
Rheumatic  hands  in  white  and  red, 

And  gouty  feet — in  chalk. 

IV. 

Anon  my  studious  art  for  days 
Kept  making  faces — happy  phrase 

For  faces  such  as  mine  ! 
Accomplish'd  in  the  details  then, 
I  left  the  minor  parts  of  men, 

And  drew  the  form  divine. 

V. 

Old  Gods  and  Heroes — Trojan — Gred^ 
Figures — long  after  the  antique, 

Great  Aj ax  justly  fear'd  ; 
Hectors,  of  whom  at  night  I  dreamt, 
And  Nestor,  fringed  enough  to  tempt 

Bird-nesters  to  his  beard. 

VI. 

A  Bacchus,  leering  on  a  bowl, 
A  Pallas,  that  out- stared  her  owl, 

A  Vulcan — very  lame  ; 
A  Dian  stuck  about  with  stars, 
With  my  right  hand  1  murder'd  Mars— 

(One  Williams  did  the  same). 

VII. 

But  tired  of  this  dry  work  at  last, 
Crayon  and  chalk  aside  I  cast. 

And  gave  my  brush  a  drink  ! 
Dipping — "  as  when  a  painter  dips 
In  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse,"— 

That  is — in  Indian  ink. 

VIII. 

Oh,  then,  what  black  Mont  Blancs  arosc^ 
Crested  with  soot,  and  not  with  snows  : 

What  clouds  of  dingy  hue  ! 
In  spite  of  what  the  Bard  has  penn'd, 
I  fear  the  distance  did  not  "  lend 

Enchantment  to  the  view." 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ART.  195 


IX. 

Not  Radcliffe's  brush  did  e'er  design 
Blacl<;  Forests  half  so  black  as  mine. 

Or  lakes  so  like  a  pall  ; 
The  Chinese  cake  dispersed  a  ray 
Of  darkness,  like  the  light  of  Day 

And  Martin  over  all. 

X. 

Yet  urchin  pride  sustain'd  me  still, 
I  gazed  on  all  with  x'\<^t  good  will, 

And  spread  the  dingy  tint  ; 
**  No  holy  Luke  help'd  me  to  paint ; 
The  Devil  surely,  not  a  Saint, 

Had  any  finger  in't !  " 

XI. 

But  colours  came  ! — like  morning  light, 
With  gorgeous  hues  displacing  night, 

Or  Spring's  enliven'd  scene  : 
At  once  the  sable  shades  withdrew  : 
My  skies  got  very,  very  blue  ; 

My  trees  extremely  green. 

XII. 

And  wash'd  by  my  cosmetic  brush, 
How  Beauty's  cheek  began  to  blush  ; 

With  locks  of  auburn  stain — 
(Not  Goldsmith's  Auburn) — nut-brown  hair. 
That  made  her  loveliest  of  the  fair  ; 

Not  "  loveliest  of  the  plain  !" 

XIII. 

Her  lips  were  of  vermilion  hue  ; 
Love  in  her  eyes,  and  Prussian  blue, 

Set  all  my  heart  in  flame  ! 
A  young  Pygmalion,  I  adored 
The  maids  I  made — but  time  was  stored 

With  evil — and  it  came  ! 

XIV. 

Perspective  dawn'd— and  soon  I  saw 
My  bouses  stand  against  its  law  ; 

And  "  keeping"  all  unkept ! 
My  beauties  were  no  longer  things 
For  love  and  fond  imaginings, 

But  horrors  to  be  wept ! 


196 


A  SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS. 


XV, 

Ah  !  why  did  knowledge  ope  my  eyes  ? 
Why  did  I  get  more  artist-wise  ? 

It  only  serves  to  hint 
What  grave  defects  and  wants  are  mine  ; 
That  I'm  no  Hilton  in  design — 

In  nature  no  Dewint  ! 

XVI. 

Thrice  happy  time  ! — Art's  early  days  ! 
When  o'er  each  deed,  with  sweet  self-praise, 

Narcissus-like  I  hung! 
When  great  Rembrandt  but  little  seem'd, 
And  such  Old  Masters  all  were  deem'd 

As  nothing  to  the  young  ! 


"  Better  late  than  never.' 


A  SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS. 


Servant.  How  well  you  saw 

Your  father  to  school  to-day,  knowing  how  apt 

He  is  to  play  the  truant 
Son.  But  is  he  not 

Vet  Rone  to  school? 
Servant.  Stand  by,  and  you  shall  see. 

Enter  three  Old  Men  -wiih  satchels,  singing. 

All  Three.        Domine,  Doniine,  duster, 

Three  knaves  in  a  cluster. 
Son.  Oh,  this  is  gallant  pastime.    Nay,  come  on  ; 

Is  this  your  school  ?  was  that  your  lesson,  ha? 


A  SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS.  I97 

ttt  Old  Matt,  Pray,  now,  good  son,  indeed,  indeed 

Son.  Indeed 

You  shall  to  school.     Away  with  him  I  and  take 

Their  wagships  with  him,  the  whole  cluster  of  them. 
»d  Old  Man.    You  shan't  send  us,  now,  so  you  shan't 
30?  Old  Man,    We  be  none  of  your  father,  so  we  ben't. 
Son.  Away  with  'em,  I  say  ;  and  tell  their  schoolmistress 

What  truants  they  are,  and  bid  her  pay  'em  soundly. 
All  Three.       Oh  1  oh  1  oh  I 
Lady.  Alas  I  will  nobody  beg  pardon  for 

The  poor  old  boys  ? 
Traveller,        Do  men  of  such  fair  years  here  go  to  school  f 
Native.  They  would  die  dunces  else. 

These  were  great  scholars  in  their  youth  ;  but  when 

Age  grows  upon  men  here,  their  learning  wastes, 

And  so  decays,  that,  if  they  live  until 

Threescore,  their  sons  send  'em  to  school  again  ; 

They'd  die  as  speechless  else  as  new-born  childreiL 
Travelltr.        'Tis  a  wise  nation,  and  the  piety 

Of  the  young  men  most  rare  and  commendable  : 

Yet  give  me,  as  a  stranger,  leave  to  beg 

Their  liberty  this  day. 
Sm.  Tis  granted. 

Hold  up  your  heads ;  and  thank  the  gentleman. 

Like  scholars,  wiih  your  heels  now. 
All  Tint.       Gratias  I  Gratias  1  Gratias  1  [Exeuni  stnging:] 

*  The  Antipodes  " — By  R.  Bromb. 

AMONGST  the  foundations  for  the  promotion  of  National  Educa- 
.  tion,  I  had  heard  of  Schools  for  Adults  ;  but  I  doubted  of  their 
existence.  They  were,  I  thought,  merely  the  fancies  of  old  dramatists, 
such  as  that  scene  just  quoted ;  or  the  suggestions  of  philanthropists 
— the  theoretical  buildings  of  modern  philosophers — benevolent  pro- 
spectuses drawn  up  by  warm-hearted  enthusiasts,  but  of  schemes 
never  to  be  realised.  They  were  probably  only  the  bubble  projections 
of  a  junto  of  interested  pedagogues,  not  content  with  the  entrance 
moneys  of  the  rising  generation,  h\it  aiming  to  exact  a  premium  from 
the  unlettered  greybeard.  The  age,  I  argued,  was  not  ripe  for  such 
institutions,  in  spite  of  the  spread  of  intelligence,  and  the  vast  power 
of  knowledge  insisted  on  by  the  public  journalist.  I  could  not  con- 
ceive a  set  of  men,  or  gentlemen,  of  mature  years,  if  not  aged,  entering 
themselves  as  members  of  preparatory  schools  and  petty  seminaries, 
in  defiance  of  shame,  humiliation,  and  the  contumely  of  a  literary  age. 
It  seemed  too  whimsical  to  contemplate  fathers  and  venerable  grand- 
fathers emulating  the  infant  generation,  and  seeking  for  instruction 
in  the  rudiments.  My  imagination  refused  to  picture  the  hoary 
abecedarian — 

"  With  satchel  on  his  back,  and  shining  morning  face, 
Creeping,  like  snail,  unwillingly  to  school." 

Fancy  grew  restive  at  a  patriarchal  ignoramus  with  a  fool's-cap,  and  a 
rod  thrust  down  his  bosom  ;  at  a  palsied  truant  dodging  the  palmy 
inflictions  of  the  cane  ;  or  a  silver-headed  dunce  horsed  on  a  pair  oi 
rheumatic  shoulders  for  a  paralytic  flagellation.  The  picture  notwith- 
standing is  realised !  Elderly  people  seem  to  have  considered  that 
they  will  be  as  awkwardly  situated  in  the  other  world  as  here  without 
their  alphabet, — and  Schools  for  Grown  Persons  to  learn  to  read  are 
no  more  Utopian  than  New  Harmony.     The  following  letter  from  as 


198  A  SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS. 

old  gentliman,  whose  education  had  been  neglected,*  confirms  me  in 
the  fact  It  is  copied,  verbatim  and  literatim,  from  the  original,  which 
fell  into  my  hands  by  accident. 

Black  Hkath,  November  1827. 

Deer  Brother, 

My  honnerd  Parents  being  Both  desist  I  feal  my 
deuty  to  give  you  Sum  Acount  of  the  Prof^gress  I  have  maid  in  my 
studdys  since  last  Vocation.  You  will  be  i;ratefied  to  hear  I  am  at 
the  Hed  of  my  Class  and  Tom  Hodges  is  at  its  Bottom,  tho  He  was 
Seventy  last  Burth  Day  and  I  am  onely  going  on  for  Three  Skore.  I 
have  begun  Gografy  and  do  exsizes  on  the  Globs.  In  figgers  I  am  all 
most  out  the  fore  Simples  and  going  into  Compounds  next  weak.  In 
the  mean  time  hop  you  will  aprove  my  Hand  riting  as  well  as  my 
Speling  witch  I  have  took  grate  panes  with  as  you  desird.  As  for  the 
French  Tung  Mr  Legendcr  says  I  shall  soon  get  the  pronounciation 
as  well  as  a  Parishiner  but  the  Master  thinks  its  not  advisible  to  begin 
Lattin  at  my  advancd  ears. 

With  respecks  to  my  Pearsonal  comfits  I  am  verry  happy  andmidling 
Well  xcept  the  old  Cumplant  in  my  To — but  the  Master  is  so  kind 
as  to  let  me  have  a  Cushin  for  my  feat.  If  their  is  any  thing  to  cum- 
plane  of  its  the  Vittles.  Our.  Cook  dont  understand  Maid  dishes. 
Her  Currys  is  xcrabble.  Tom  Hodges  Foot  Man  brings  him  Evry 
Day  soop  from  Birches.  I  wish  you  providid  me  the  same.  On  the 
hole  I  wish  on  menny  Acounts  I  was  a  Day  border  partickly  as 
Barlow  sleeps  in  our  Room  and  coffs  all  nite  long.  His  brother's 
Ashmy  is  wus  then  his.  He  has  took  lately  to  snuff  and  I  have  wishes 
to  do  the  like.  Its  very  dull  after  Supper  since  Mr  Grierson  took  away 
the  fellers  Pips,  and  forbid  smocking,  and  allmost  raized  a  Riot  on 
that  hed,  and  some  of  the  Boys  was  to  have  Been  horst  for  it.  I  am 
happy  (to)  say  I  have  never  been  floged  as  yet  and  onely  Caind  once 
and  that  was  for  damming  at  the  Cooks  chops  becous  they  was  so 
overdun,  but  there  was  to  have  been  fore  Wiped  yeaster  day  for 
Playing  Wist  in  skool  hours,  but  was  Begd  ofT  on  acount  of  their 
Lumbargo. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  Ponder  has  had  another  Stroak  of  the  perrylaticks 
and  has  no  Use  of  his  Lims.  He  is  Parrs  fag — and  Parr  has  got  the 
Roomytix  bysides  very  bad  but  luckly  its  onely  stiffind  one  Arm  so  he 
has  still  Hops  to  get  the  Star  for  Heliocution.  Poor  Dick  Combs 
eye  site  has  quite  gone  or  he  would  have  a  good  chance  for  the  Silvur 
Pen. 

Mundy  was  one  of  the  Fellers  Burths  Days  and  we  was  to  have  a 
hole  Holiday  but  he  dyed  sudnly  over  nite  of  the  appoplxy  and  dis- 
appinted  us  verry  much.  Two  moor  was  fetcht  home  last  Weak  so 
that  we  are  getting  very  thin  partickly  when  we  go  out  Wauking,  witch 
is  seldom  more  than  three  at  a  time,  their  is  allways  so  menny  in  the 
nursry.     I  forgot  to  say  Garrat  run  off  a  month  ago  he  got  verry 

•  See  Elia's  Letter  to  an  Old  Gentleman  whose  Education  has  been  Nes^lected, 
London  Magazine,  January  1825  ;  Complete  Works  of  Charles  Lamb,  p.  404. 


A  SCHOOL  FOR  ADULTS,  19^ 

Homesick  ever  since  his  Granchilderen  cum  to  sea  him  at  skooi, — Mr 

Grierson  has  expeld  him  for  running  away. 

On  Tuesday  a  new  Schollard  cum.  He  is  a  very  old  crusty  Chaj 
and  not  much  lick'd  for  that  resin  by  the  rest  of  the  Boys,  whom  all 
Teas  him,  and  call  him  Phig  because  he  is  a  retired  Grosser.  Mr 
Grierson  declind  another  New  Boy  because  he  hadnt  had  the  Mizzles. 
I  have  red  Gays  Fabbles  and  the  other  books  You  were  so  kind  to 
send  me — and  would  be  glad  of  moor  partickly  the  Gentlemans  with 
a  Welsh  Whig  and  a  Worming  Pan  when  you  foreward  my  Closebox 
with  my  clean  Lining  like  wise  sum  moor  Fleasy  Hoshery  for  my  legs 
and  the  Cardmums  I  rit  for  with  the  French  Grammer  &c.  Also 
weather  I  am  to  Dance  next  quarter.  The  Gimnystacks  is  being 
interdeuced  into  our  Skool  but  is  so  Voilent  no  one  follows  them  but 
Old  Parr  and  He  cant  get  up  his  Pole. 

I  have  no  more  to  rite  but  hop  this  letter  will  find  you  as  Well  as 
me ;  Mr  Grierson  is  in  Morning  for  Mr  Linly  Murry  of  whose  loss 
you  have  herd  of — xcept  which  he  is  in  Quite  good  Helth  and  desires 
his  Respective  Complements  with  witch  I  remane 

Your  deutiful  and 

loving  Brother 


S.P.  Barlow  and  Phigg  have  just  had  a  fite  in  the  Yard  about 
calling  names  and  Phigg  has  pegged  Barlows  tooth  out  But  it  was 
loose  before.  Mr  G.  dont  allow  Puglism,  if  he  nose  it  among  the  Boys, 
as  at  their  Times  of  lifes  it  might  be  fatle  partickly  from  puUng  their 
Coats  of  in  the  open  Are. 

Our  new  Husher  his  cum  and  is  verry  well  Red  in  his  Mother's 
tung,  witch  is  the  mane  thing  with  Beginers  but  We  wish  the  Frentch 
Master  was  changed  on  Acount  of  his  Pollyticks  and  Religun.  Brass- 
brige  and  him  is  always  Squabling  about  Bonnyparty  and  the  Pop  of 
Room.  Has  for  Barlow  we  cant  tell  weather  He  is  Wig  or  Tory  for 
he  cant  express  his  Sentymints  for  Cofifing. 


The  Spare  Bed. 


A  LEGEND  OF  NA  VARRE. 


*TWAS  in  the  reign  of  Lewis,  call'd  the  Great, 
As  one  may  read  on  his  triumphal  arches, 

The  thing  befel  I'm  going  to  relate, 

In  course  of  one  of  those  ''  pomposo  "  marches 

He  loved  to  make,  like  any  gorgeous  Persian, 

Partly  for  war,  and  partly  for  diversion. 


Some  wag  had  put  it  in  the  royal  brain 
To  drop  a  visit  at  an  old  chateau, 

Quite  unexpected,  with  his  courtly  train  ; 
The  monarch  liked  it, — but  it  happen'd  so, 

That  Death  had  got  before  them  by  a  post. 

And  they  were  "  reckoning  without  their  host? 

III. 

Who  died  exactly  as  a  child  should  die, 
Without  one  groan  or  a  convulsive  breath, 

Closing  without  one  pang  his  quiet  eye, 
Sliding  composedly  from  sleep — to  deaths 

A  corpse  so  placid  ne'er  adorn'd  a  bed. 

He  seem'd  not  quite — but  only  rather  dead. 


A  LEGEND  OF  NA  VARRE.  Ml 


IV. 

All  night  the  widow'd  Baroness  contrived 
To  shed  a  widow's  tears  ;  but  on  the  morrow 

Some  news  of  suih  unusual  sort  arrived, 

There  came  strange  aUeration  in  her  sorrow  ; 

From  mouth  to  mouth  it  pass'd,  one  common  humming 

Throughout  the  house — the  King  !  the  King  is  coming  I 

V. 

The  Baroness,  with  all  her  soul  and  heart 

A  loyal  woman  (now  call'd  ultra-royal), 
Soon  thrust  all  funeral  concerns  apart. 

And  only  thought  about  a  banquet-royal ; 
In  short,  by  aid  of  earnest  preparation, 
The  visit  quite  dismiss'd  the  visitation. 

VI. 

And,  spite  of  all  her  grief  for  the  ex-mate, 

There  was  a  secret  hope  she  could  not  smother, 

That  some  one,  early,  might  replace  "  the  late  "— 
It  was  too  soon  to  think  about  another  ; 

Yet  let  her  minutes  of  despair  be  reckon'd 

Against  her  hope,  which  was  but  for  a  second, 

VII. 

She  almost  thought  that  being  thus  bereft 
Just  then  was  one  of  Time's  propitious  touches ; 

A  thread  in  such  a  nick  so  nick'd,  it  left 
Free  opportunity  to  be  a  duchess  ; 

Thus  all  her  care  was  only  to  look  pleasant. 

But  as  for  tears — she  dropp'd  them — for  the  present 

VIII. 

Her  household,  as  good  servants  ought  to  try, 
Look'd  like  their  lady — anything  but  sad, 

And  giggled  even  that  they  might  not  cry. 
To  damp  fine  company  ;  in  truth  they  had 

No  time  to  mourn,  thro'  choking  turkeys'  throttles 

Scouring  old  laces,  and  reviewing  bottles. 

IX. 

Oh,  what  a  hubbub  for  the  house  of  woe  ! 

All,  resolute  to  one  irresolution. 
Kept  tearing,  swearing,  plunging  to  and  fro, 

Just  like  another  French  mob-revolution. 
There  lay  the  corpse,  that  could  not  stir  a  muscle^ 
But  all  the  rest  seem'd  Chaos  in  a  bustle. 


A  LEGEND  OF  NA  VARRE, 


The  Monarch  came  :  oh  !  who  could  ever  guess 
The  Baroness  had  been  so  late  a  weeper  ! 

The  kingly  grace,  and  more  than  graciousness, 
Buried  the  poor  defunct  some  fathoms  deeper,— 

Could  he  have  had  a  glance — alas,  poor  being  I 

Seeing  would  certainly  have  led  to  D — ing. 

XI. 

For  casting  round  about  her  eyes  to  find 
Some  one  to  whom  her  chattels  to  endorse, 

The  comfortable  dame  at  last  inclined 

To  choose  the  cheerful  Master  of  the  Horse  ; 

He  was  so  gay, — so  tender, — the  complete 

Nice  man, — the  sweetest  of  the  monarch's  suite; 

XII. 

He  saw  at  once,  and  enter'd  in  the  lists — 
Glance  unto  glance  made  amorous  replies  ; 

They  talk'd  together  like  two  egotists, 
In  conversation  all  made  up  oi  eyes : 

No  couple  ever  got  so  right  consort-ish 

Within  two  hours — a  courtship  rather  shortish. 

XIII. 

At  last,  some  sleepy,  some  by  wine  opprest, 
The  courtly  company  began  "  nid-noddin  ; " 

The  King  first  sought  his  chamber,  and  the  rest 
Instanter  follow'd  by  the  course  he  trod  in. 

I  shall  not  please  the  scandalous  by  showing 

The  order,  or  disorder,  of  their  going. 

XIV. 

The  old  chateau,  before  that  night,  had  never 
Held  half  so  many  underneath  its  roof; 

It  task'd  the  Baroness's  best  endeavour, 
And  put  her  best  contrivance  to  the  proof. 

To  give  them  chambers  up  and  down  the  stairs, 

In  twos  and  threes,  by  singles,  and  by  pairs, 

XV. 

She  had  just  lodging  for  the  whole — yet  barely  ; 

And  some,  that  were  both  broad  of  back  and  tall. 
Lay  on  spare  beds  that  served  them  very  sparely  ; 

However,  there  were  beds  enough  for  all ; 
But  living  bodies  occupied  so  many, 
She  could  not  let  the  dead  one  take  up  any  ! 


A  LEGEND  OF  NA  VARRE.  ao) 


XVI. 

The  act  was,  certainly,  not  over  decent : 

Some  small  respect  e'en  after  death  she  owed  him, 

Considering  his  death  had  been  so  recent  ; 

However,  by  command,  her  servants  stow'd  him 

(I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  he  was  slubber'd), 

Stuck  bolt  upright  within  a  corner  cupboard  1 

XVII. 

And  there  he  slept  as  soundly  as  a  post, 
With  no  more  pillow  than  an  oaken  shelf: 

Just  like  a  kind  accommodating  host, 
Taking  all  inconvenience  on  himself; 

None  else  slept  in  that  room,  except  a  stranger, 

A  decent  man,  a  sort  of  Forest  Ranger : 

XVIII. 

Who,  whether  he  had  gone  too  soon  to  bed, 

Or  dreamt  himself  into  an  appetite, 
Howbeit,  he  took  a  longing  to  be  fed. 

About  the  hungry  middle  of  the  night  ; 
So  getting  forth,  he  sought  some  scrap  to  eat. 
Hopeful  of  some  stray  pasty  or  cold  meat, 

XIX. 

The  casual  glances  of  the  midnight  moon, 
Brightening  some  antique  ornaments  of  brass. 

Guided  his  gropings  to  that  corner  soon, 
Just  where  it  stood,  the  coffin-safe,  alas  ! 

He  tried  the  door — then  shook  it — and  in  course 

Of  time  it  open'd  to  a  little  force. 

XX. 

He  put  one  hand  in,  and  began  to  grope  ; 

The  place  was  very  deep  and  quite  as  dark  as 
The  middle  night ; — when  lo  !  beyond  his  hope, 

He  felt  a  something  cold,  in  fact,  the  carcase ; 
Right  overjoy'd,  he  laugh'd,  and  blest  his  luck 
At  finding,  as  he  thought,  this  haunch  of  buck  I 

XXI. 

Then  striding  back  for  his  coiiteau-de-chasse^ 
Determined  on  a  httle  midnight  lunching, 

He  came  a<jain  and  probed  about  the  mass, 
As  if  to  find  the  fattest  bit  for  munching ; 

Not  meaning  wastefully  to  cut  it  all  up. 

But  only  to  abstract  a  little  collop. 


A  LEGEND  OF  NA  VARRM, 


XXII. 


But  just  as  he  had  struck  one  greedy  stroke, 
His  hand  fell  down  quite  powerless  and  weak ; 

For  when  he  cut  the  haunch  it  plainly  spoke 
As  haunch  of  venison  never  ought  to  speak  ; 

No  wonder  that  his  hand  could  go  no  further — 

Whose  could?— to  carve  cold  meat  that  bellow'd,  "Murtherl" 

XXIII. 

Down  came  the  body  with  a  bounce,  and  down 
The  Ranger  sprang,  a  staircase  at  a  spring, 

And  bawl'd  enough  to  waken  up  a  town  ; 

Some  thought  that  they  were  murder'd,  some,  the  King, 

And,  like  Macduff,  did  nothing  for  a  season, 

But  stand  upon  the  spot  and  bellow,  "  Treason  1  • 

XXIV. 

A  hundred  nightcaps  gather'd  in  a  mob, 

Torches  drew  torches,  swords  brought  swords  together, 
It  seem'd  so  dark  and  perilous  a  job  ; 

The  Baroness  came,  trembling  like  a  feather, 
Just  in  the  rear,  as  pallid  as  a  corse, 
Leaning  against  the  Master  of  the  Horse. 

XXV 

A  dozen  of  the  bravest  up  the  stair, 

Well  lighted  and  well  watch'd,  began  to  clamber ; 
They  sought  the  door — they  found  it — they  were  there— 

A  dozen  heads  went  poking  in  the  chamber  ; 
And  lo  !  with  one  hand  planted  on  his  hurt, 
There  stood  the  Body  bleeding  thro'  his  shirt, — 

XXVI. 

No  passive  corse — ^but,  like  a  duellist 

Just  smarting  from  a  scratch,  in  fierce  position, 

One  hand  advanced,  and  ready  to  resist  ; 
In  fact,  the  Baron  dofif'd  the  apparition. 

Swearing  those  oaths  the  French  delight  in  most, 

And  for  the  second  time  "  gave  up  the  ghost  1 " 

XXVII. 

A  living  miracle ! — for  why  ? — the  knife  , 
That  cuts  so  many  off  from  grave  grey  hairs 

Had  only  carved  him  kindly  into  life  : 

How  soon  it  changed  the  posture  of  affairs  I 

The  difference  one  person  more  or  less 

Will  make  in  families,  is  past  all  guess. 


A  LEGEND  OF  NA  VARRE. 


205 


XXVIII. 

There  stood  the  Baroness — no  widow  yet ; 

Here  stood  the  Baron—"  in  the  body"  still ; 
There  stood  the  Horses'  Master  in  a  pet, 

Choking  with  disappointment's  bitter  pill, 
To  see  the  hope  of  his  reversion  fail, 
Like  that  of  riding  on  a  donkey's  tail. 

XXIX. 

The  Baron  lived — 'twas  nothing  but  a  trance  ! 

The  lady  died — 'twas  nothing  but  a  death  : 
The  cupboard-cut  served  only  to  enhance 

This  postscript  to  the  old  Baronial  breath  : 
He  soon  forgave,  for  the  revival's  sake, 
A  little  chop  intended  for  a  steak  I 


<^  <-:^'C^ 


"  Speak  up,  sir." 


2o6 


The  Flying  Dutchman. 


THE  DEMON-SHIP, 

STORIES  of  storm-ships  and  haunted  vessels,  of  spectre-shallops 
and  supernatural  Dutch  doCT^ers,  are  common  to  many  countries, 
and  are  well  attested  both  in  poetry  and  prose.  The  adventures  of 
Solway  sailors,  with  Mahound,  in  his  bottomless  bari^es,  and  the 
careerings  of  the  phantom-ship  up  and  down  the  Hudson,  have 
hundreds  of  asserters  besides  Messrs  Cunningham  and  Crayon  ;  and 
to  doubt  their  authenticity  may  seem  like  an  imitation  of  the  desperate 
sailing  of  the  haunted  vessels  themselves  against  wind  and  tide.  I 
cannot  help  fancying,  however,  that  Richard  Faulder  was  but  one  of 
those  tavern-dreamers  recorded  by  old  Heywood,  who  conceived 

"The  room  wherein  they  quaff d  to  be  a  pinnace." 

And  as  for  the  Flying  Dutchman,  my  notion  is  very  different  from  the 
popular  conception  of  that  apparition,  as  I  have  ventured  to  show  by 
the  above  design.  The  spectre-ship,  bound  to  Dead-Man's  Isle,  is 
almost  as  awful  a  craft  as  the  skeleton-bark  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  ; 
but  they  are  both  fictions,  and  have  not  the  advantage  of  being 
realities,  like  the  dreary  vessel  with  its  dreary  crew  in  the  following 
story,  which  records  an  adventure  that  befel  even  unto  myself. 

'TwAS  oflfthe  Wash — the  sun  went  down — the  sea  look'd  black  and  grim, 
For  stormy  clouds,  with  murky  fleece,  were  mustering  at  the  brim  ; 
Titanic  shades  !  enormous  gloom  ! — as  if  the  solid  night 
Of  Erebus  rose  suddenly  to  seize  upon  the  light ! 


THE  DEMON-SHIP.  ao; 

It  was  a  time  for  mnriners  to  bear  a  wary  eye, 

With  such  a  dark  conspiracy  between  the  sea  and  sky  I 

Down  went  my  helm — glose  reef'd — the  tack  held  freely  in  my  hand—* 

With  ballast  snug — I  ptt  about,  and  scudded  for  the  hind. 

Loud  hiss'd  the  sea  beneath  her  lee — my  little  boat  flew  fast, 

But  faster  still  the  rushing  storm  came  borne  upon  the  blast. 

Lord  !  what  a  roaring  hurricane  beset  the  straining  sail  ! 

What  furious  sleet,  with  level  drift,  and  tierce  assaults  of  hail  ! 

What  darksome  caverns  yawn'd  before  !  what  jagged  steeps  behind  ! 

Like  battle-steeds,  with  foamy  manes,  wild  tossing  in  the  wind. 

Each  after  each  sank  down  astern,  exhausted  in  the  chase. 

But  where  it  sank  another  rose  and  gallop'd  in  its  place  ; 

As  black  as  night — they  turn'd  to  white,  and  cast  against  the  cloud 

A  snowy  sheet,  as  if  each  surge  uptuin'd  a  sailor's  shroud  : — 

Still  flew  my  boat :  alas  !  alas  !  her  course  was  nearly  run  ! 

Behold  yon  fatal  billow  rise — ten  billows  heap'd  in  one  ! 

With  fearful  speed  the  dreary  mass  came  rolling,  rolling,  fast, 

As  if  the  scooping  sea  contain'd  one  only  wave  at  last  ! 

Still  on  it  came,  with  horrid  roar,  a  swift  pursuing  grave  ; 

It  seem'd  as  though  some  cloud  had  turn'd  its  hugeness  to  a  wave  ! 

Its  briny  sleet  be.^an  to  beat  beforehand  in  my  face — 

I  felt  the  rearward  keel  begin  to  climb  its  swelling  base  ! 

I  saw  its  alpine  hoary  head  impending  over  mine ! 

Another  pulse — and  down  it  rush'd — an  avalanche  of  brine! 

Brief  pause  had  I  on  God  to  cry,  or  think  of  wife  and  home  ; 

The  waters  closed — and  when  I  shriek'd,  I  shriek'd  below  the  foam  t 

Beyond  that  rush  I  have  no  hint  of  any  after  deed — 

For  I  was  tossing  on  the  waste,  as  senseless  as  a  weed. 

"Where  am  I  ? — in  the  breathing  world,  or  in  the  world  of  death  ?" 
With  sharp  and  sudden  pang  I  drew  another  birth  of  breath  ; 
My  eyes  drank  in  a  doubtful  light,  my  ears  a  doubtful  sound — 
And  was  that  ship  a  real  ship  whose  tackle  seem'd  around  ? 
A  moon,  as  if  the  earthly  moon,  was  shining  up  aloft  ; 
But  were  those  beams  the  very  beams  that  I  had  seen  so  oft  ? 
A  face,  that  mock'd  the  human  face,  before  me  w.itch'd  alone  ; 
But  were  those  eyes  the  eyes  of  man  that  look'd  against  my  own? 

Oh  !  never  may  the  moon  again  disclose  me  such  a  sight 
As  met  my  gaze,  when  first  I  look'd,  on  that  accursed  night ! 
I've  seen  a  thousand  horrid  shapes  begot  of  fierce  extremes 
Of  fever  ;  and  most  frightful  things  have  haunted  in  my  dreams- 
Hyaenas — cats — blood-loving  bats — and  apes  with  hateful  stare- 
Pernicious  snakes,  and  shaggy  bulls — the  lion,  and  she-bear — 
Strong  enemies,  with  Judas  looks,  of  treachery  and  spite — 
Detested  features,  hardly  dimm'd  and  banish'd  by  the  light ! 
Pale-sheeted  ghosts,  with  gory  locks,  upstarting  from  their  tombs- 
All  phantasies  and  images  that  flit  in  midnight  glooms — 
Hags,  goblins,  demons,  lemures,  have  made  me  all  aghast, — 
But  nothing  like  that  Grimly  One  who  stood  beside  the  mast  1 


2o8  SALL y  HOLT  AND  JOHN  HA  YLOFT. 

His  cheek  was  black — his  brow  was  black — his  eyes  and  hair  as  darki 
His  hand  was  black,  and  where  it  touch'd,  it  left  a  sable  mark  ; 
His  throat  was  black,  his  vest  the  same,  and  when  I  look'd  beneath, 
His  breast  was  black — all,  all  was  black,  except  his  grinning  teeth. 
His  sooty  crew  were  like  in  hue,  as  black  as  Afric  slaves  ! 
O  horror  !  e'en  the  ship  was  black  that  plough'd  the  inky  waves  ! 

"  Alas  !  "  I  cried,  "  for  love  of  truth  and  blessed  mercy's  sake, 
Where  am  I  ?  in  what  dreadful  ship  ?  upon  what  dreadful  lake? 
What  shape  is  that,  so  very  grim,  and  black  as  any  coal  ? 
It  is  Mahound,  the  Evil  One,  and  he  has  gain'd  my  soul  ! 
O  piother  dear  !  my  tender  nurse  i  dear  meadows  that  beguiled 
My  happy  days,  when  I  was  yet  a  little  sinless  child, — 
My  mother  dear — my  native  fields,  1  never  more  shall  see  : 
I'm  sailmg  in  the  Devil's  Ship,  upon  the  Devil's  Sea !" 

Loud  laugh'd  that  Sable  Mariner,  and  loudly  in  return 

His  sooty  crew  sent  forth  a  laugh  that  rang  from  stem  to  stem — 

A  dozen  pair  of  grimly  cheeks  were  crumpled  on  the  nonce — 

As  many  sets  of  grinning  teeth  came  shining  out  at  once : 

A  dozen  gloomy  shapes  at  once  enjoy'd  the  merry  fit. 

With  shriek  and  yell,  and  oaths  as  well,  like  Demons  of  the  Pit. 

They  crow'd  their  fill,  and  then  the  Chief  made  answer  for  the  whole  ;— 

"  Our  skins,"  said  he,  "  are  black  ye  see,  because  we  carry  coal ; 

You'll  find  your  mother  sure  enough,  and  see  your  native  fields — 

For  this  here  ship  has  pick'd  you  up — the  Mary  Ann  of  Shields  1* 


SALLY  HOLT,  AND  THE  DEATH  OF 
JOHN  HA  YLOFT. 

FOUR  times  in  the  year — twice  at  the  season  of  the  half-yearly 
dividends,  and  twice  at  the  intermediate  qunrters,  to  make  her 
slender  investments — there  calls  at  my  Avnt  Shakerly's  a  very  plain, 
very  demure  maiden,  about  forty,  and  makes  her  way  downward  to 
the  kitchen,  or  upward  to  my  cousin's  chamber,  as  may  happen.  Her 
coming  is  not  to  do  chair-work,  or  needlework — to  tell  fortunes— to 
beg,  steal,  or  borrow.  She  does  not  come  for  old  clothes,  or  for  new. 
Her  simple  errand  is  love — pure,  strong,  disinterested,  enduring  love, 
passing  the  love  of  women — at  least  for  women. 

It  is  not  often  servitude  begets  much  kindliness  between  the  two 
relations ;  hers,  however,  grew  from  that  ungenial  soil. — For  the  whole 
family  of  the  Shakerlys  she  has  a  strong  feudal  attachment,  but  her 
particular  regard  dwells  with  Charlotte,  the  latest  born  of  the  clan. 
Her  she  dotes  upon — her  she  fondles — and  takes  upon  her  longing, 
loving  lap. 

Oh,  let  not  the  oblivious  attentions  of  the  worthy  Dominie  Sampson 
to  the  tall  boy  Bertram  be  called  an  unnatural  working  !  I  have 
seen  my  cousin,  a  good  feeder,  and  well  grown  into  womanhood- 
sitting — two  good  heads  taller  than  her  dry-nurse — on  the  knees  ol 


SALL  Y  HOLT  AND  JOHN  HA  YLOFT.  iog 

the  simple-hearted  Sally  Holt !  I  have  seen  the  hu.2;e  presentation 
orange,  unlapped  from  the  homely  speckled  kerchief,  and  thrust  with 
importunate  tenderness  into  the  bashful  marriageable  hand. 

My  cousin's  heart  is  not  so  artificially  composed  as  ♦o  let  her  scorn 
this  humble  affection,  though  she  is  puzzled  sometimes  with  what  kind 
of  look  to  receive  these  honest  but  awkward  endearments.  I  have 
seen  her  face  quivering  with  half  a  laugh. 

It  is  one  of  Sally's  staple  hopes  that,  some  day  or  other,  when  Miss 
Charlotte  keeps  house,  she  will  live  with  her  as  a  servant ;  and  this 
expectation  makes  her  particular  and  earnest  to  a  fault  in  her  inquiries 
about  sweethearts,  and  offers,  and  the  matrimonial  chances,  questions 
which  I  have  seen  my  cousin  listen  to  with  half  a  cry. 

Perhaps  Sally  looks  upon  th^s  confidence  as  her  right,  in  return  for 
those  secrets  which,  by  joint  force  of  ignorance  and  affection,  she 
could  not  help  reposing  in  the  bosom  of  her  foster-mistress.  Nature, 
unkind  to  her,  as  to  Dogberry,  denied  to  her  that  knowledge  of  read- 
ing and  writing  which  comes  to  some  by  instinct.  A  strong  principle 
of  religion  made  it  a  darling  point  with  her  to  learn  to  read,  that  she 
might  study  in  her  Bible  ;  but  in  spite  of  all  the  help  of  my  cousin, 
and  as  ardent  a  desire  for  learning  as  ever  dwelt  in  scholar,  poor  Sally 
never  mastered  beyond  A-B-ab.  Her  mind,  simple  as  her  heart,  was 
unequal  to  any  more  difficult  combinations.  Writing  was  worse  to 
her  than  conjuring.  My  cousin  was  her  amanuensis  ;  and  from  the 
vague,  unaccountable  mistrust  of  ignorance,  the  inditer  took  the  pains 
always  to  compare  the  verbal  message  with  the  transcript,  by  counting 
the  number  of  the  words. 

I  would  give  up  all  the  tender  epistles  of  Mrs  Arthur  Brooke  to 
have  read  one  of  Sally's  epistles  ;  but  they  were  amatory,  and  therefore 
kept  sacred  :  for,  plain  as  she  was,  Sally  Holt  had  a  lover. 

There  is  an  unpretending  plainness  in  some  faces  that  has  its  charm 
— an  unaffected  ugliness  a  thousand  times  more  bewitching  than  those 
would-be  pretty  looks  that  neither  satisfy  the  critical  sense,  nor  leave 
the  matter  of  beauty  at  once  to  the  imagination.  We  like  better  to 
make  a  new  face  than  to  mend  an  old  one.  Sally  had  not  one  good 
feature,  except  those  which  John  Hayloft  made  for  her  in  his  dreams  ; 
and  to  judge  from  one  token,  her  partial  fancy  was  equally  answerable 
for  his  charms.  One  precious  lock — no,  not  a  lock,  but  rather  a  rem- 
nant of  very  short,  very  coarse,  very  yellow  hair,  the  clippings  of  a 
military  crop — for  John  was  a  corporal — stood  the  foremost  item 
amongst  her  treasures.  To  her  they  were  curls,  golden,  Hyperion, 
and  cherished  long  after  the  parent-head  was  laid  low,  with  many 
more,  on  the  bloodv  plain  of  Salamanca. 

I  remember  vividly  at  this  moment  the  ecstasy  of  her  grief  at  the 
receipt  of  the  fatal  news.  She  was  standing  near  the  dresser  with 
a  dish,  just  cleaned,  in  her  dexter  hand.  Ninety-nine  women  in  a 
hundred  would  have  dropped  the  dish.  Many  would  have  flung  them- 
selves after  it  on  the  floor ;  but  Sally  put  it  up,  orderly,  on  the 
shelf.  The  fall  of  John  Hayloft  could  not  induce  the  fall  of  the 
crockery.  She  felt  the  blow  notwithstanding,  and  as  soon  as  she  had 
emptied  her  hands,  began  to  give  way  to  her  emotions  in  her  own 
manner.       Affliction   vents  itself  in   various   modes,   with    different 

o 


tro  SALL  Y  HOL  T  AND  JOHN  HA  YL  OFT. 

temperaments  :  some  rage,  others  compose  themselves  like  monu- 
ments. Some  weep,  some  sleep,  some  prose  about  death,  and  others 
poetise  on  it.  Many  take  to  a  bottle,  or  to  a  rope.  Some  go  to 
Margate  or  Bath. 

Sally  did  nothing  of  these  kinds.  She  neither  snivelled,  travelled, 
sickened,  maddened,  nor  ranted,  nor  canted,  nor  hung,  nor  fuddled, 
herself — she  only  rocked  herself  u^on  the  kitchen  chair  1 1 

The  action  was  not  adequate  to  her  relief.  She  got  up — took  a  fresh 
chair — then  another — and  another — and  another. — till  she  had  rocked 
on  all  the  chairs  in  the  kitchen. 

The  thing  was  tickling  to  both  sympathies.  It  was  pathetical  to 
behold  her  grief,  but  ludicrous  that  she  knew  no  better  how  to  grieve. 

An  American  might  have  thought  that  she  was  in  the  act  of  enjoy- 
ment, but  for  an  intermitting  "  O  dear  !  O  dear  !  "  Passion  could  not 
wring  more  from  her  in  the  way  of  exclamation  than  the  toothache.  Her 
lamentations  were  always  the  same,  even  in  tone.  By  and  by  she 
pulled  out  the  hair — the  cropped,  yellow,  stunted,  scrubby  hair  ;  then 
she  fell  to  rocking — then  "  O  dear  !  O  dear  !  " — and  then  Da  Capo. 

It  was  an  odd  sort  of  elegy,  and  yet,  simple  as  it  was,  I  thought  it 
worth  a  thousand  of  Lord  L>  ttelton's  ! 

"Heyday,  Sally!  what  is  the  matter?"  was  a  very  natural  inquiry 
from  my  Aunt,  when  she  came  down  into  the  kitchen  ;  and  if  she  did 
not  make  it  with  her  tongue,  at  least  it  was  asked  very  intelligibly  by 
her  eyes.  Now  Sally  had  but  one  way  of  addressing  her  mistress,  and 
she  used  it  here.  It  was  the  same  with  which  she  would  have  asked 
for  a  holiday,  except  that  the  waters  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  If  you  please.  Ma'am,"  said  she,  rising  up  from  her  chair,  and 
dropping  her  old  curtsey,  "  if  you  please,  Ma'am,  it's  John  Hayloft  is 
dead  ;  "  and  then  she  began  rocking  again,  as  if  grief  was  a  baby  that 
wanted  jogging  to  sleep. 

My  Aunt  was  posed.  She  would  fain  have  comforted  the  mourner, 
but  her  mode  of  grieving  was  so  out  of  the  common  way,  that  she  did 
not  know  how  to  begin.  To  the  violent  she  might  have  brought 
soothing  ;  to  the  desponding,  texts  of  patience  and  resignation  ;  to 
the  hysterical,  sal  volatile  ;  she  might  have  asked  the  sentimental  for 
the  story  of  her  woes.  A  good  scolding  is  useful  with  some  sluggish 
griefs  : — in  some  cases  a  cordial.     In  others — a  job. 

If  Sally  had  only  screamed,  or  bellowed,  or  fainted,  or  gone  stupified, 
or  raved,  or  said  a  collect,  or  moped  about,  it  would  have  been 
easy  to  deal  with  her.  But  with  a  woman  that  only  rocked  on  he* 
chair 

What  the  devil  could  my  Aunt  do  ? 

Why,  nothing  : — and  she  did  it  as  well  as  she  could* 


T(i{i'''i/vrJi{  ^j£ 


Pony-Atowski, 


A  TRUE  STORY. 

Of  all  our  pains,  since  man  was  curst— 
I  mean  of  body,  not  the  mental — 
To  name  the  worst  among  the  worst, 
The  dental  sure  is  transcendental ; 
Some  bit  of  masticating  bone, 
That  ought  to  help  to  clear  a  shelf, 
But  lets  its  proper  work  alone, 
And  only  seems  to  gnaw  itself; 
In  fact,  of  any  grave  attack 
On  victual  there  is  little  danger, 
'Tis  so  like  coming  to  the  rack. 
As  well  as  going  to  the  manger. 

Old  Hunks — it  seem'd  a  fit  retort 

Of  justice  on  his  grinding  ways^ 

Possess'd  a  grinder  of  the  sort, 

That  troubled  all  his  latter  days. 

The  best  of  friends  fall  out,  and  so 

His  teeth  had  done  some  years  ago, 

Save  some  old  stumps  with  ragged  root, 

And  they  took  turn  about  to  shoot  ; 

If  he  drank  any  chilly  liquor, 

They  made  it  quite  a  point  to  throb ; 

But  if  he  warm'd  it  on  the  hob. 

Why  then  they  only  twitch'd  the  quicker. 


ai3  A  TRUE  STORY. 

One  tooth — I  wonder  such  a  tooth 

Had  never  kill'd  him  in  his  youth — 

One  tooth  he  had  with  many  fangs, 

That  shot  at  once  as  many  pangs, 

It  had  an  universal  sting  ; 

One  touch  of  that  ecstatic  stump 

Could  jerk  his  limbs  and  make  him  jumf^ 

Just  like  a  puppet  on  a  string  ; 

And  what  was  worse  than  all,  it  had 

A  way  of  making  others  bad. 

There  is,  as  many  know,  a  knack, 

With  certain  farming  undertakers, 

And  this  same  tooth  pursued  their  track, 

By  adding  achers  still  to  ackers  I 

One  way  there  is,  that  has  been  judged 

A  certain  cure,  but  Hunks  was  loth 

To  pay  the  fee,  and  quite  begrudged 

To  lose  his  tooth  and  money  both  ; 

In  fact,  a  dentist  and  the  wheel 

Of  Fortune  are  a  kindred  cast. 

For,  after  all  is  drawn,  you  feel 

It's  paying  for  a  blank  at  last  ; 

So  Hunks  wei(^  on  from  week  to  week, 

And  kept  his  torment  in  his  cheek  ; 

Oh  !  how  it  sometimes  set  him  rocking. 

With  that  perpetual  gnaw— gnaw— gnaw, 

His  moans  and  groans  were  truly  shocking 

And  loud, — altho'  he  held  his  jaw. 

Many  a  tug  he  gave  his  gum 

And  tooth,  but  still  it  would  not  come; 

Tho'  tied  by  string  to  some  firm  thing. 

He  could  not  draw  it,  do  his  best, 

By  drawers,  altho'  he  tried  a  chest. 

At  last,  but  after  much  debating, 

He  join'd  a  score  of  mouths  in  waiting, 

Like  his,  to  have  their  troubles  out. 

Sad  sight  it  was  to  look  about 

At  twenty  faces  making  faces. 

With  many  a  rampant  trick  and  antic, 

For  all  were  very  horrid  cases. 

And  made  their  owners  nearly  frantic. 

A  little  wicket  now  and  then 

Took  one  of  these  unhappy  men. 

And  out  again  the  victim  rush'd 

While  eyes  and  mouth  together  gush'd  ; 

At  last  arrived  our  hero's  turn, 

Who  plunged  his  hands  in  both  his  pockets. 

And  down  he  sat,  prepared  to  learn 

How  teeth  are  charm'd  to  quit  their  sockets. 


A  TRUE  STORY.  HJ 

Those  who  have  felt  such  operations, 
Alone  can  guess  the  sort  of  ache, 
When  his  old  tooth  began  to  break 
The  thread  of  old  associations  ; 
It  touch'd  a  string  in  every  part, 
It  had  so  many  tender  ties  ; 
One  chord  seem'd  wrenching  at  his  heart, 
And  two  were  tugging  at  his  eyes  ; 
•'  Bone  of  his  bone,"  he  felt  of  course  ; 
As  husbands  do  in  such  divorce  ; 
At  last  the  fangs  gave  way  a  little,_ 
Hunks  gave  his  head  a  backward  jerk. 
And  lo  !  the  cause  of  all  this  work, 
Went — where  it  used  to  send  his  victual  1 

The  monstrous  pain  of  this  proceeding 

Had  not  so  numb'd  his  miser  wit, 

But  in  this  slip  he  saw  a  hit 

To  save,  at  least,  his  purse  from  bleeding  J 

So  when  the  dentist  sought  his  fees, 

Quoth  Hunks,  "  Let's  finish,  if  you  please* 

«'  How,  finish  !  why,  it's  out  ! "— "  Oh  !  no— 

*Tis  you  are  out  to  argue  so  ; 

I'm  none  of  your  beforehand  tippers. 

My  tooth  is  in  my  head,  no  doubt, 

But  as  you  say  you  puU'd  it  out. 

Of  course  it's  there — between  your  nippers  * 

"  Zounds,  sir  !  d'ye  think  I'd  sell  the  truth 

To  get  a  fee  ?  no,  wretch,  I  scorn  it !  " 

But  Hunks  still  ask'd  to  see  the  tooth, 

And  swore,  by  gum  !  he  had  not  drawn  it. 

His  end  obtain'd,  he  took  his  leave, 

A  secret  chuckle  in  his  sleeve  ; 

The  joke  was  worthy  to  produce  one. 

To  think,  by  favour  of  his  wit, 

How  well  a  dentist  had  been  bit 

By  one  old  stump,  and  that  a  loose  one  ! 

The  thing  wis  worth  a  laugh,  but  mirth 

Is  still  the  frailest  thing  on  earth  ; 

Alas  !  how  often  when  a  joke 

Seems  in  our  sleeve,  and  safe  enough, 

There  comes  some  unexpected  stroke, 

And  hangs  a  weeper  on  the  cuflf  1 

Hunks  had  not  whistled  half  a  mile^ 
When,  planted  right  against  a  stile. 
There  stood  his  foeman,  Mike  Mahoney, 
A  vagrant  reaper,  Irish-born, 
That  help'd  to  reap  our  miser's  corn. 
But  had  not  help'd  to  reap  his  money. 


'tl4  A  TRUE  STORY, 

A  fact  that  Hunks  remember'd  quickly  ; 
His  whistle  all  at  once  was  quell'd, 
And  when  he  saw  how  Michael  held 
His  sickle,  he  felt  rather  sickly. 

Nine  souls  in  ten,  with  half  his  fright, 
Would  soon  have  paid  the  bill  at  sight, 
But  misers  (let  observers  watch  it) 
Will  never  part  with  their  delight 
Till  well  demanded  by  a  hatchet — 
They  live  hard — and  they  die  to  match  it 
Thus  Hunks  prepared  for  Mike's  attacking. 
Resolved  not  yet  to  pay  the  debt, 
But  let  him  take  it  out  in  hacking  ; 
However,  Mike  began  to  stickle 
In  words  before  he  used  the  sickle ; 
But  mercy  was  not  long  attendant : 
From  words  at  last  he  took  to  blows, 
And  aim'd  a  cut  at  Hunks's  nose, 
That  made  it,  what  some  folks  are  not— 
A  member  very  independent. 

Heaven  knows  how  far  this  cruel  trick 

Might  still  have  led,  but  for  a  tramper 

That  came  in  danger's  very  nick. 

To  put  Mahoney  to  the  scamper. 

But  still  compassion  met  a  damper ; 

There  lay  the  sever'd  nose,  alas  ! 

Beside  the  daisies  on  the  grass, 

"  Wee,  crimson-tipt "  as  well  as  they, 

According  to  the  poet's  lay  : 

And  there  stood  Hunks,  no  sight  for  laughter  I 

Away  ran  Hodge  to  get  assistance. 

With  nose  in  hand,  which  Hunks  ran  after. 

But  somewhat  at  unusual  distance. 

In  many  a  little  country-place 

It  is  a  very  common  case 

To  have  but  one  residing  doctor. 

Whose  practice  rather  seems  to  be 

No  practice,  but  a  rule  of  three. 

Physician — surgeon — drug-decoctor  ; 

Thus  Hunks  was  forced  to  go  once  more 

Where  he  had  ta'en  his  tooth  before. 

His  mere  name  made  the  learn'd  man  hot, — 

**  What !   Hunks  again  within  my  door  ! 

**  I'll  pull  his  nose."     Quoth  Hunks,  "  You  cannot* 

The  doctor  look'd,  and  saw  the  case 
Plain  as  the  nose  not  on  his  face. 
"  Oh  !  hum — ha — yes — I  understand.* 
But  then  arose  a  long  demur, 


A  TRUE  STORY,  21 J 

For  not  a  finger  would  he  stir 
Till  he  was  paid  his  fee  in  hand  ; 
That  matter  settled,  there  they  were, 
With  Hunks  well  strapp'd  upon  his  chair. 

The  opening  of  a  surgeon's  job — 
His  tools — a  chestful  or  a  drawerful — 
Are  always  something  very  awful, 
And  give  the  heart  the  strangest  throb  t 
But  never  patient  in  his  funks 
Look'd  half  so  like  a  ghost  as  HunkSy 
Or  surgeon  half  so  like  a  devil 
Prepared  for  some  infernal  revel  : 
His  huge  black  eye  kept  rolling,  rolling, 

iust  like  a  bolus  in  a  box  : 
lis  fury  seem'd  above  controlling, 
He  bellovv'd  like  a  hunted  ox  : 
**  Now,  swindling  wretch,  I'll  show  thee  how 
We  treat  such  cheating  knaves  as  thou  ; 
Oh  !  sweet  is  this  revenge  to  sup  ; 
I  have  thee  by  the  nose — it's  now 
My  turn — and  I  will  turn  it  up." 

Guess  how  the  miser  liked  this  scurvy 
And  cruel  way  of  venting  passion  ; 
The  snubbing  folks  in  this  new  fashion 
Seem'd  quite  to  turn  him  topsy-turvy  ; 
He  utter'd  prayers  and  groans  and  curses, 
For  things  had  often  gone  amiss 
And  wrong  with  him  before,  but  this 
Would  be  the  worst  of  all  reverses  I 
In  fancy  he  beheld  his  snout 
Turn'd  upward  like  a  pitcher's  spout  ; 
There  was  another  grievance  yet, 
And  fancy  did  not  fail  to  show  it, 
That  he  must  throw  a  summerset. 
Or  stand  upon  his  head,  to  blow  it 

And  was  there  then  no  argument 

To  change  the  doctor's  vile  intent, 

And  move  his  pity  ? — yes,  in  truth. 

And  that  was — paying  for  the  tooth. 

•'  Zounds  !  pay  for  such  a  stump  !  I'd  rather       J* 

But  here  the  menace  went  no  farther. 

For,  with  his  other  ways  of  pinching, 

Hunks  had  a  miser's  love  of  snuff, 

A  recollection  strong  enough 

To  cause  a  very  serious  flinching; 

In  short,  he  paid,  and  had  the  feature 

Replaced  as  it  was  meant  by  nature ; 

For  tho'  by  this  'twas  cold  to  handle 


ai6  THE  DECLINE  OF  MRS  SHAKERLY. 

(No  corpse's  could  have  felt  more  horrid), 
And  white,  just  like  an  end  of  candle, 
The  doctor  deem'd,  and  proved  it  too, 
That  noses  from  the  nose  will  do 
As  well  as  noses  from  the  forehead  ; 
So,  fix'd  by  dint  of  rag  and  lint, 
The  part  was  bandaged  up  and  mufifled. 
The  chair  unfasten'd,  Hunks  arose. 
And  shuffled  out,  for  once  unshuffled  ; 

And  as  he  went,  these  words  he  snuffled 

"  Well,  this  is  *  paying  through  the  nose.'  " 


''  Wholesale— Retail— and  for  Exporta.iun. 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MRS  SHAKERLY. 

TOWARDS  the    close   of  her  life,  my  Aunt  Shakerly  increased 
rapidly  in  bulk  :  she  kept  adding  growth  unto  her  growth— 

"  Giving  a  sum  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much," — 

till  the  result  was  worthy  of  a  Smithfield  premium.  It  was  not  the 
triumph,  however,  of  any  systematic  diet  for  the  promotion  of  fat 
(except  oyster-eating,  there  is  no  human  system  of  j-/«//-feeding)  ;  on 
the  contrary,  she  lived  abstemiously,  diluting  her  food  with  pickle-acids, 
and  keeping  frequent  fasts,  in  order  to  reduce  her  compass  ;  but  thej' 


THE  DECLINE  OF  MRS  SHAKERL  K 


217 


failed  of  this  desirable  effect.  Nature  had  planned  an  original  tendency 
in  her  organisation  that  was  not  to  be  overcome  ;  she  would  have  fat- 
tened on  sour  krout. 

My  Uncle,  on  the  other  hand,  decreased  daily.  Originally  a  little 
man,  he  became  lean,  shrunken,  wizened.  There  was  a  predisposition 
in  his  constitution  that  made  him  spare,  and  kept  him  so  :  he  would 
have  fallen  off,  even  on  brewer's  grains. 

It  was  the  common  joke  of  the  neighbourhood  to  designate  my  Aunt, 
my  Uncle,  and  the  infant  Shakerly,  as  "  Wholesale,  Retail,  and 
FOR  Exportation  ;"  and  in  truth,  they  were  not  inapt  impersonations 
of  that  popular  inscription — my  Aunt  a  giantess,  my  Uncle  a  pigmy, 
and  the  child  being  "  carried  abroad." 

Alas  !  of  the  three  departments,  nothing  now  remains  but  the  Retail 
portion — my  uncle,  a  pennyworth,  a  mere  sample. 

It  is  upon  record  that  Dr  Watts,  though  a  puny  man  in  person,  took 
a  fancy,  towards  his  latter  days,  that  he  was  too  large  to  pass  through 
a  door — an  error  which  Death  shortly  corrected  by  taking  him  through 
his  own  portal.    My  unhappy  Aunt,  with  more  show  of  reason,  indulged 


q::2^' 


Pan  deans. 


in  a  similar  delusion.  She  conceived  herself  to  have  grown  incon- 
veniently cumbersome  for  the  small  village  of. ,  and  my  Uncle,  to 

quiet  her,  removed  to  the  metropolis.  There  she  lived  for  some  months 
in  comparative  ease,  till  at  last  un  unlucky  event  recalled  all  her  former 
inquietude.  The  elephant  of  Mr  Cross,  a  good  feeder,  and  with  a 
natural  tendency  to  corpulence,  throve  so  well  on  his  rntions,  that,  be- 
coming too  huge  for  his  den,  he  was  obliged  to  be  dispatched.  My 
Aunt  read  the  account  in  the  newspapers,  and  the  catastrophe,  with  its 
cause,  took  possession  of  her  mind.     She  seemed  to  herself  as  that 


2l8 


TIM  TVRPIN. 


elephant.  An  intolerable  sense  of  confinement  and  oppression  haunted 
her  by  day  and  in  her  dreams.  First  she  had  a  tightness  at  her  chest, 
then  in  her  limbs,  then  all  over.  She  felt  too  big  for  her  chair,  then 
for  her  bed,  then  for  her  room,  then  for  the  house  !  To  divert  her 
thought,  my  Uncle  proposed  to  go  to  Paris  ;  but  she  was  too  huge  for 
a  boat,  for  a  barge,  for  a  packet,  for  a  frigate,  for  a  country,  for  a  con- 
tinent !  "  She  was  too  big,"  she  said,  "  for  this  world  ;  but  she  was 
going  to  one  that  is  boundless." 

Nothing  could  wean  her  from  this  belief.  Her  whole  talk  was  of 
"cumber  grounds,"  of  the  "burthen  of  the  flesh,"  and  of  "infinity." 
Sometimes  her  head  wandered,  and  she  would  then  speak  of  disposing 
of  the  "  bulk  of  her  personals." 

In  the  meantime,  her  health  decayed  slowly,  but  perceptibly.  She 
was  dying,  the  doctor  said,  by  inches. 

Now  my  Uncle  was  a  kind  husband,  and  meant  tenderly,  though  it 
sounded  untender  ;  but  when  the  doctor  said  that  she  was  dying  by 
inches — 

"  God  forbid  !  "  cried  my  Uncle.  "  Consider  what  a  great  big  crea- 
ture she  is  !"  ^ 


^111 


The  Judges  of  A-Size. 

TIM  TURPIN. 

A     PATHETIC     BALLAD. 


I. 


Tim  Turpin  he  was  gravel-blind. 
And  ne'er  had  seen  the  skies  : 

For  Nature,  when  his  head  was  mad& 
Forgot  to  dot  his  eyes. 


TIM  TURPIN.  2H 


II. 


So,  like  a  Christmas  pedagogue, 
Poor  Tim  was  forced  to  do — 

Look  out  for  pupils  ;  for  he  had 
A  vacancy  for  two. 


III. 


There's  some  have  specs  to  help  their  sight 

Of  objects  dim  and  small  : 
But  Tim  had  specks  within  his  eyes, 

And  could  not  see  at  ail. 


IV. 


Now  Tim  he  woo'd  a  servant  maid. 
And  took  her  to  his  arms  ; 

For  he,  like  Pyramus,  had  cast 
A  wall-eye  on  her  charms. 


V. 


By  day  she  led  him  up  and  down, 

Where'er  he  wish'd  to  jog, 
A  happy  wife,  altho'  she  led 
The  life  of  any  dog. 


VI. 

But  just  when  Tim  had  lived  a  month 

In  honey  with  his  wife, 
A  surgeon  oped  his  Milton  eves, 

Like  oysters,  with  a  knile. 

VII. 

But  when  his  eyes  were  open'd  thus, 
He  wish'd  them  dark  again  : 

For  when  he  look'd  upon  his  wif(^ 
He  saw  her  very  plain. 

VIII. 

Her  face  was  bad,  her  figure  worsen 

He  couldn't  bear  to  eat  : 
For  she  was  anything  but  like 

A  Grace  before  his  meat 

IX, 

Now  Tim  he  was  a  feeling  man  : 
For  when  his  sight  was  thick, 

It  made  him  feel  for  everything  — 
But  that  was  with  a  stick. 


TIM  TURPIN. 


So,  with  a  cudgel  in  his  hand — 

It  was  not  light  or  slim — 
He  knock'd  at  his  wife's  head  until 

It  open'd  unto  him. 

XI. 

And  when  the  corpse  was  stiff  and  coldy 
He  took  his  slaughter'd  spouse, 

And  laid  her  in  a  heap  with  aU 
The  ashes  of  her  house. 

XII. 

But  like  a  wicked  murderer, 

He  lived  in  constant  fear 
From  day  to  day,  and  so  he  ctit 

His  throat  from  ear  to  ear. 

XIII. 

The  neighbours  fetch'd  a  doctor  in  \ 
Said  he,  "  This  wound  1  dread 

Can  hardly  be  sew'd  up — his  life 
Is  hanging  on  a  thread." 

XIV. 

But  when  another  week  was  gone^ 
He  gave  him  stronger  hope — 

Instead  of  hanging  on  a  thread, 
Of  hanging  on  a  rope. 

XV. 

Ah  !  when  he  hid  his  bloody  worl^ 

In  ashes  round  about, 
How  little  he  supposed  the  truth 

Would  soon  be  sifted  out. 

XVI. 

But  when  the  parish  dustman  cam^ 

His  rubbish  to  withdraw, 
He  found  more  dust  within  the  heap 

Than  he  contracted  for  1 

XVII. 

A  dozen  men  to  try  the  fact, 

Were  sworn  that  very  day  ; 
But  tho'  they  all  were  jurors,  yet 

No  conjurors  were  they.      , 


TIM  TURPIN,  231 


XVIIL 


Said  Tim  unto  those  jurymen, 
You  need  not  waste  your  breath| 

For  I  confess  myself  at  once 
The  author  of  her  death. 

XIX. 

And,  oh  !  when  I  reflect  upon 
The  blood  that  I  have  spilt, 

Just  Uke  a  button  is  my  soul, 
Inscribed  with  double^//// 

XX. 

Then  turning  round  his  head  again, 

He  saw  before  his  eyes 
A  great  judge  and  a  little  judge, 

The  judges  of  a-size  1 

XXI. 

The  great  judge  took  his  judgment-cap^ 

And  put  it  on  his  head, 
And  sentenced  Tim  by  law  to  hang 

Till  he  was  three  times  dead. 

XXII. 

So  he  was  tried,  and  he  was  hung 

(Fit  punishment  for  such) 
On  Horsham-drop,  and  none  can  Mjr 

it  was  a  drop  too  much. 


Brute  Emancipation. 

THE  MONKEY-MARTYR. 

A  FABLE. 

*'  God  help  thee,  said  I,  but  I'll  let  thee  out,  cost  what  it  will :  so  I  turned  about  the  cage  t» 
get  to  the  door." — Sterne. 


'TiS  Strange  what  awkward  fi.c:;^ures  and  odd  capers 
Folks  cut  who  seek  their  doctrine  from  the  papers  ; 

But  there  are  many  shallow  politicians 
Who  take  their  bias  from  bewilder'd  journals — 

Turn  state  physicians, 
And  make  themselves  fools'-caps  of  the  diurnals. 

II. 

One  of  this  kind,  not  human,  but  a  monkey, 
Had  read  himself  at  last  to  this  sour  creed, 
That  he  was  nothing  but  Oppression's  flunkey, 
And  man  a  tyrant  over  all  his  breed. 

He  could  not  read 
Of  niggers  whipt,  or  over-trampled  weavers, 
But  he  applied  their  wrongs  to  his  own  seed. 
And  nourish'd  thoughts  that  threw  him  into  fevers. 
His  very  dreams  were  full  of  martial  beavers, 
And  drilling  Pugs,  for  liberty  pugnacious, 

To  sever  chains  vexatious. 
In  fact,  he  thought  that  all  his  injured  line 
Should  take  up  pikes  in  hand,  and  never  drop  'em 
Till  they  had  clear'd  a  road  to  Freedom's  shrine, 
Unless,  perchance,  the  turn-pike  men  should  stop  'em. 


THE  MONKEY-MARTYR.  223 

IIL 

Full  of  this  rancour, 
Pacing  one  day  beside  St  Clement  Djines, 

It  came  into  his  brains 
To  give  a  look  in  at  the  Crown  and  Anchor ; 
Where  certain  solemn  sages  of  the  nation 
Were  at  that  moment  in  deliberation 
How  to  relieve  the  wide  world  of  its  chains, 

Pluck  despots  down, 

And  thereby  crown 
Whitee-  as  well  as  blackee-man-cipation. 
Pug  heard  the  speeches  with  great  approbation, 
And  gazed  with  pride  upon  the  Liberators  ; 

To  see  mere  coalheavers 

Such  perfect  Bolivars — 
Waiters  of  inns  sublimed  to  innovators — 
And  slaters  dignified  as  legislators- 
Small  publicans  demanding  (such  their  high  sense 
Of  liberty)  an  universal  licence — 
And  patten-makers  easing  Freedom's  clogs— 

The  whole  thing  seem'd 

So  fine,  he  deem'd 
The  smallest  demagogues  as  great  as  Gogs  ! 

IV. 

Pug,  with  some  curious  notions  in  his  noddle, 
Walk'd  out  at  last,  and  turn'd  into  the  Strand, 

To  the  left  hand, 
Conning  some  portions  of  the  previous  twaddle, 
And  striding  with  a  step  that  seem'd  design'd 
To  represent  the  piighty  March  of  Mind, 

Instead  of  that  slow  waddle 
Of  thought  to  which  our  ancestors  inclined- 
No  wonder,  then,  that  he  should  quickly  find 
He  stood  in  front  of  thnt  intrusive  pile, 

Where  Cross  keeps  many  a  kind 

Of  bird  confined. 
And  free-bom  animal,  in  durance  vile — 
A  thought  that  stirr'd  up  all  the  monkey-bile. 


The  window  stood  ajar — 

It  was  not  far, 
Nor,  like  Parnassus,  very  hard  to  climb — 
The  hour  was  verging  on  the  supper-time. 
And  mnny  a  growl  was  sent  throu<^h  many  a  bar. 
Meanwhile  Pug  scrambled  upward  like  a  tar, 

And.  soon  crept  in. 

Unnoticed  in  the  din 
Of  tuneless  throats,  that  made  the  attics  ring 
With  all  the  harshest  notes  that  they  could  bring ; 


ta4  THE  MONKEY-MARTYR. 

For,  like  the  Jews, 
Wild  beasts  refuse 
In  midst  of  their  captivity — to  sing. 

VI. 

Lord,  how  it  made  him  chafe. 
Full  of  his  new  emancipating  zeal. 
To  look  around  upon  this  brute-bastile, 
And  see  the  king  of  creatures  in — a  safe  ! 
The  desert's  denizen  in  one  small  den, 
Swallowing  slavery's  most  bitter  pills — 
A  bear  in  bars  unbearable.     And  then 
The  fretful  porcupine,  with  all  its  quills 

Imprison'd  in  a  pen  ! 
A  tiger  limited  to  four  feet  ten, 

And,  still  worse  lot, 

A  leopard  to  one  spot ! 

An  elephant  enlarged. 

But  not  discharged 
(It  was  before  the  elephant  was  shot)  ; 
A  doleful  wanderow,  that  wander'd  not ; 
An  ounce  much  disproportion'd  to  his  pound. 

Pug's  wrath  wax'd  hot 
To  gaze  upon  these  captive  creatures  round  ; 
Whose  claws— all  scratching — gave  him  full  assurance 
They  found  their  durance  vile  of  vile  endurance. 

VII. 

He  went  above — a  solitary  mounter 

Up  gloomy  stairs — and  saw  a  pensive  group 

Of  hapless  fowls — 

Cranes,  vultures,  owls  ; 
In  fact,  it  was  a  sort  of  Poultry-Compter, 
Where  feather'd  prisoners  were  doom'd  to  droop; 
Here  sat  an  eagle,  forced  to  make  a  stoop. 
Not  from  the  skies,  but  his  impending  roof; 

And  there  aloof, 
A  pining  ostrich,  moping  in  a  coop  ; 
With  other  samples  of  the  bird  creation. 
All  caged  against  their  powers  and  their  wills  ; 
And  cramp'd  in  such  a  space,  the  longest  bills 
Were  plainly  bills  of  least  accommodation. 
In  truth,  it  was  a  very  ugly  scene 
To  fall  to  any  liberator's  share. 
To  see  those  winged  fowls,  that  once  had  been 
Free  as  the  wind,  no  freer  than  fix'd  air. 

VIII. 

His  temper  little  mended. 
Pug  from  this  Bird-cage  Walk  at  last  descended 
Unto  the  lion  and  the  elephant. 
His  bosom  in  a  pant 
To  see  all  Nature's  Free  List  thus  suspended, 


BANDITTI,  M< 

And  beasts  deprived  of  what  she  had  intended. 

They  could  not  even  prey 

In  the'r  own  way — 
A  hardship  always  reckon'd  quite  prodigious. 

Thus  he  revolved, 

And  soon  resolved 
To  give  them  freedom,  civil  and  religious. 

IX. 
That  nisrht  there  were  no  country  cousins,  raw 
From  Wales,  to  view  the  Hon  and  his  kin  : 
Ihe  keeper's  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  a  saw  ; 
The  saw  was  fix'd  upon  a  bullock's  shin  : 

Meanwhile  with  stealthy  paw, 

Pug  hasten'd  to  withdraw 
The  bolt  that  kept  the  king  of  brutes  within. 
Now,  monarch  of  the  forest  !  thou  shalt  win 
Precious  enfranchisement — thy  bolts  are  tindone  | 
Thou  art  no  longer  a  degraded  creature, 
But  loose  to  roam  with  liberty  and  nature, 
And  free  of  all  the  jungles  about  London — 
Ail  Hampstead's  heathy  desert  lies  before  thee  ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  bound  from  Cross's  ark 
Full  of  the  native  instinct  that  comes  o'er  thee. 

And  turn  a  ranger 
Of  Hounslow  Forest  and  the  Regent's  Park^ 
Thin  Rhodes's  cows — the  mail-coach  steeds  endanger, 
And  gobble  parish  watchmen  after  dark. 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  with  the  early  lark. 
Stealing  to  Merlin's  cave  {thy  cave).     Alas, 
That  such  bright  visions  should  not  come  to  pass  1 
Alas  for  freedom,  and  for  freedom's  hero  1 

Alas  for  liberty  of  life  and  limb  1 
For  Pug  had  only  half  unbolted  Nero, 

When  Nero  bolted  him  I 

BANDITTI. 

OF  all  the  saints  in  the  Calendar,  none  has  suffered  less  from  tlie 
Reformation  than  St  Cecilia,  the  great  patroness  of  Music 
Lofty  and  lowly  are  her  votaries — many  and  magnificent  are  her  holi 
day  festivals — and  her  common  service  is  performing  at  all  hours  of 
the  day.  She  has  not  only  her  regular  high-priests  and  priestesses  ; 
but,  like  the  Wesleyans,  her  itinerants  and  street-missionaries,  to  make 
known  her  worship  in  the  highways  and  in  the  byways.  Nor  is  the 
homage  confined  to  the  people  of  one  creed  ;— the  Protestant  exalts 
her  on  his  b:irrel-or,^an — the  Catholic  with  her  tambourine — the  wan- 
dering Jew  with  his  Pan's-pipe  and  double  drum.  The  group  over-ltaf 
was  sketched  from  a  company  of  these  *•  Strolling  Players." 

It  must  be  confessed  that  their  service  is  sometimes  of  a  kind  rather 
to  drive  angels  higher  into  heaven,  than  to  entice  them  earthward  j 


226 


BANDITTI. 


and  there  are  certain  retired  streets — near  the  Adelphi,  for  instance- 
where  such  half-hourly  deductions  from  the  natural  quiet  of  the  situa- 
tion should  justly  be  considered  in  the  rent.  '  Some  of  the  choruses, 
in  truth,  are  beyond  any  but  a  saintly  endurance.  Conceive  a  brace 
cf  opposition  organs,  a  fife,  two  hurdygurdies,  a  clarionet,  and  a 
quartette  of  decayed  mariners,  all  clubbing  their  music  in  common,  on 
the  very  principle  of  Mr  Owen's  New  Harmony ! 

In  the  Journal  of  a  recent  Traveller  through  the  Papal  States  there 
is  an  account  of  an  adventure  with  Neapolitan  robbers  that  would 
serve,  with  very  slight  alterations,  for  the  description  of  an  encounter 
with  our  own  banditti. 

"  To-day  Mrs  Graham  and  I  mounted  our  horses  and  rode  towards 
Islington.  We  had  not  proceeded  far  when  we  heard  sounds  as  of 
screaming  and  groaning,  and  presently  a  group  of  men  appeared  at 
the  turn  of  the  road.    It  was  too  certain  that  we  had  fallen  in  ^i<.ii  one 


BandiuL 

of  these  roving  bands.  Escape  was  impossible,  as  they  extended 
across  the  road.  Their  leader  was  the  celebrated  Flanigan,  notorious 
for  his  murder  of  Fair  Ellen,  and  the  Bewildered  Maid.  One  of  the 
fellows  advanced  close  up  to  Mrs  G.,  and  puttin:^  his  instrument  to 
her  ear,  threatened  to  blow  out  her  brains.  We  gave  them  what 
coppers  we  had,  and  were  allowed  to  proceed.  W^c  were  informed  by 
the  country-people  that  a  gentlewoman  and  her  daughter  had  been 
detained  by  them,  near  the  same  spot,  and  robbed  of  their  hearings, 
with  circumstances  of  great  barbarity  ;  Flanigan,  in  the  meantime, 
standing  by  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  ! 

"  Innumerable  other  travellers  have  been  stopped  and  tortured  by 
these  wretches  till  they  gave  up  thtir  money  ;  and  yet  these  excesses 
are  winked  at  by  the  police.  In  the  meantime,  the  Government  does 
not  interfere,  in  the  hope,  perhaps,  that  some  day  these  gangs  may  be 
broken  up  and  separated  by  discord  amongst  themselves." 


DEATH'S  RAMBLE. 


227 


Sometimes,  to  the  eye  of  fancy,  these  wandering  minstrels  assume 
another  character,  and  illustrate  CoUins's  "Ode  on  the  Pnssions  "  in 
a  way  that  might  edify' Miss  Macaulay.  First,  Fear,  a  blind  harper, 
lays  his  bewildered  hand  amongst  the  chords,  but  recoils  back  at  the 
sound  of  an  approaching  carriage.  An^er,  with  starting  eyeballs, 
blows  a  rude  clash  on  the  bugle-horn  ;  and  Despair,  a  snipe-faced  wight, 
beguiles  his  grief  with  low  sullen  sounds  on  the  bassoon.  Hope,  a 
consumptive  Scot,  with  golden  hair  and  a  clarionet,  indulges,  like  the 
flatterer  herself,  in  a  thousand  fantastic  flourishes  beside  the  tune — 
with  a  lingering  quaver  at  the  close  ;  and  would  quaver  longer,  but 
Revenge  sliaki  s  his  matted  locks,  blows  a  fresh  alarum  on  his  pandeans, 
and  thumps,  with  double  heat  his  double-drum.  Dejected  Pity,  at  his 
side,  a  hunger-bitten  urchin,  applies  to  his  silver-toned  triangle  ;  whilst 
Jealousy,  sad  proof  of  his  distracted  state,  grinds  on,  in  all  sorts  of 
time,  at  his  barrel-organ.  With  eyes  upraised,  pale  Melancholy  sings, 
retired  and  unheeded,  at  the  corner  of  the  street ;  and  Mirth, — yonder 
he  is,  a  brisk  little  Savoyard,  jerking  nwny  at  the  hurdygurdy.  and 
dancing  himself  at  the  same  time,  to  render  his  jig-tune  more  jigging. 


'  Dust  o  I " 


DEATH'S  RAMBLE. 


One  day  the  dreary  old  King  of  Death 
Inclined  for  some  sport  with  the  carnal. 

So  he  tied  a  pack  of  darts  on  his  back, 
And  quietly  stole  from  his  charnel. 


DEA  TH  'S  RA  MBLE. 

His  head  was  bald  of  flesh  and  of  hair, 

His  body  was  lean  and  lank, 
His  joints  at  each  stir  made  a  crack,  and  the  cur 

Took  a  gnaw,  by  the  way,  at  his  shank. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  his  deadly  darts, 

This  i,'oblin  of  grisly  bone  ? 
He  dabbled  and  spill'd  man's  blood,  and  he  kill'd 

Like  a  butcher  that  kills  his  own. 

The  first  he  slaughter'd  it  made  him  laugh 

(For  the  man  was  a  coffin-maker), 
To  think  how  the  mutes,  and  men  in  black  suits, 

Would  mourn  for  an  undertaker. 

Death  saw  two  Quakers  sitting  at  church, 

Quoth  he,  "  We  shall  not  differ ; " 
And  he  let  them  alone,  like  figures  of  stone, 

For  he  could  not  make  them  stifiier. 

He  saw  two  duellists  going  to  fight. 

In  fear  they  could  not  smother  ; 
And  he  shot  one  through  at  once — for  he  knew 

They  never  would  shoot  each  other. 

He  saw  a  watchman  fast  in  his  box. 

And  he  gave  a  snore  infernal  ; 
Said  Death,  "  He  may  keep  his  breath,  for  his  sleep 

Can  never  be  more  eternal." 

He  met  a  coachman  driving  his  coach 

So  slow  that  his  fare  grew  sick  ; 
But  he  let  him  stray  on  his  tedious  way. 

For  Death  only  wars  on  the  quick. 

Death  saw  a  toll-man  taking  a  toll. 

In  the  spirit  of  his  fraternity  ; 
But  he  knew  that  sort  of  man  would  extort. 

Though  summon'd  to  all  eternity. 

He  found  an  author  writing  his  life. 

But  he  let  him  write  no  further  ; 
For  Death,  who  strikes  whenever  he  likes, 

Is  jealous  of  all  self-munher  ! 

Death  saw  a  patient  that  pull'd  out  his  purse. 

And  a  doctor  that  took  the  sum  ; 
But  he  let  them  be — for  he  knew  that  the  "  fee  " 

Was  a  prelude  to  "  faw  "  and  "  fum." 


CRANIOLOGY. 

He  met  a  dustman  ringing  a  bell, 
And  he  gave  him  a  mortal  thrust ; 

For  himself,  by  law,  since  Adam's  flaw, 
Is  contractor  for  all  our  dust. 

He  saw  a  sailor  mixing  his  grog, 

And  he  mark'd  him  out  for  slaughter  ; 

For  on  water  he  scarcely  had  cared  for  Death, 
And  never  on  rum-and-water. 

Death  saw  two  players  playing  at  cards, 
But  the  game  wasn't  worth  a  dump, 

For  he  quickly  laid  them  flat  with  a  spade, 
To  wait  for  the  final  trump  I 


229 


CEANIOLOGY. 

TiS  strange  how  Hke  a  very  dunce, 
Man,  with  his  bumps  upon  his  sconce, 
Has  lived  so  long,  and  yet  no  knowledge  he 
Has  had,  till  lately,  of  Phrenology— 


lift  CRANIOLOGY. 


A  science  that  by  simple  dint  of 
Head-combing  he  should  find  a  hint  of. 
When  scratching  o'er  those  little  poIe-hill» 
The  faculties  throw  up  like  mole-hills  ;— 
A  science  that,  in  very  spite 
Of  all  his  teeth,  ne'er  came  to  light  ; 
For  though  he  knew  his  skull  had  g-rfnderSf 
Still  there  turn'd  up  no  (7;;^««-finders, 
Still  sages  wrote,  and  ages  fled, 
And  no  man's  head  came  in  his  head- 
Not  even  the  pate  nf  Erra  Pater 
Knew  aught  about  its  pia  mater. 
At  last  great  Dr  Gall  bestirs  him — 
I  don't  know  but  it  might  he  Spurzheiaa— • 
The'  native  of  a  dull  and  slow  land, 
And  makes  partition  of  our  Poll-land  J 
At  our  Acquisitiveness  guesses, 
And  all  those  necessary  nesses 
Indicative  of  human  habits, 
All  burrowing  in  the  head  like  rabbits. 
Thus  Veneration,  he  made  known, 
Had  got  a  lodging  at  the  Crown  ; 
And  Music  (see  Deville's  example) 
A  set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple  ; 
That  Language  taught  the  tongues  close  b^ 
And  took  in  pupils  thro'  the  eye, 
Close  by  his  neighbour  Computation, 
Who  taught  the  eyebrows  numeration. 

The  science  thus — to  speak  in  fit 

Terms — having  struggled  from  its  nit, 

Was  seized  on  by  a  swarm  of  Scotchmen, 

Those  scientifical  hotch-potch  men, 

Who  have  at  least  a  penny  dip 

And  wallop  in  all  doctorship. 

Just  as  in  making  broth  they  smatter 

By  bobbing  twenty  things  in  water  : 

These  men,  I  say,  made  quick  appliance, 

And  close,  to  phrenologic  science; 

For  of  all  learned  themes  whatever, 

That  schools  and  colleges  deliver, 

There's  none  they  love  so  near  the  bodies, 

As  analysing  their  own  noddles  ; 

Thus  in  a  trice  each  northern  blockhead 

Had  got  his  fingers  in  his  shock  head. 

And  of  his  bumps  was  babbling  yet  worse 

Than  poor  Miss  Capulet's  dry  wet-nurse  ; 

Till  having  been  sufficient  rangers 

Of  their  own  heads,  they  took  to  strangers', 

And  found  in  Presbyterians'  polls 

The  things  they  hated  in  their  souls  ; 


CRANIOLOGY.  sjl 

For  Presbyterians  hear  with  passion 
Of  organs  joined  with  veneration. 
No  kind  there  was  of  human  pumpkin 
But  at  its  bumps  it  had  a  bumpkin, 
Down  to  the  very  lowest  guUion, 
And  oiUest  scull  of  oily  scullion. 
No  great  man  died  but  this  they  did  ^o^ 
They  begg'd  his  cranium  of  his  widow  : 
No  murderer  died  by  law  disaster, 
But  they  took  off  his  sconce  in  plaster  ; 
For  thereon  they  could  show  depending 
"  The  head  and  front  of  his  offending  :  * 
How  that  his  philanthropic  bump 
Was  master'd  by  a  baser  lump  ; 
For  every  bump  (these  wags  insist) 
Has  its  direct  antagonist, 
Each  striving  stoutly  to  prevail, 
Like  horses  knotted  tail  to  tail  ; 
And  many  a  stiff  and  sturdy  battle 
Occurs  between  these  adverse  cattle: 
The  secret  cause,  beyond  all  question. 
Of  aches  ascribed  to  indigestion, — 
Whereas  'tis  but  two  knobby  rivals 
Tugging  together  like  sheer  devils, 
Till  one  gets  mastery,  good  or  sinister, 
And  comes  in  like  a  new  prime  minister* 

Each  bias  in  some  master  node  is  '.-^ 
What  takes  M'Adam  where  a  road  is, 
To  hammer  little  pebbles  less  ? 
His  organ  of  Destructiveness. 
What  makes  great  Joseph  so  encumber 
Debate  ?  a  lumping  lump  of  Number : 
Or  Malthus  rail  at  babies  so  ? 
The  smallness  of  his  Philopro. 
What  severs  man  and  wife  ?  a  simple 
Defect  of  the  Adhesive  pimple  : 
Or  makes  weak  women  go  astray? 
Their  bumps  are  more  in  fault  than  they. 

These  facts  being  found  and  set  in  order 
By  grave  M.D.'s  beyond  the  Border, 
To  make  them  for  some  few  months  eternal, 
Were  enter'd  monthly  in  a  journal. 
That  many  a  northern  sage  still  writes  in. 
And  throws  his  little  Northern  Lights  in, 
And  proves  and  proves  about  the  phrenos 
A  great  deal  more  than  I  or  he  knows : 
How  Music  sniiers,  par  exetnple, 
By  wearing  tight  hats  round  the  temple  ; 
What  ills  great  boxers  have  to  fear 
From  blisters  put  behind  the  ear  ; 


232 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  HONOUR. 

And  how  a  porter's  Veneration 

Is  hurt  by  porter's  occupation  ; 

Whether  shillelaghs  in  reality 

May  deaden  Individuality  ; 

Or  tongs  and  poker  be  creative 

Of  alterations  in  th'  Amative  ; 

If  falls  from  scaffolds  make  us  less 

Inclined  to  all  Constructiveness  : 

With  more  such  matters,  all  applying 

To  heads — and  therefore  head\iy'\ivg. 


Honour  calls  him  to  the  field." 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  HONOUR. 

"  A^^  those  were  the  only  duels,"  concluded  the  major,  "that  ever 
l\.     I  fought  in  my  life." 

Now  the  major  reminded  me  strongly  of  an  old  boatman  at  Hastings, 
who,  after  a  story  of  a  swimmer  that  was  snapped  asunder  by  a  "sea 
attorney"  in  the  West  Indies,  made  an  end  in  the  same  fashion; — 
"And  that  was  the  only  time,"  said  he,  "  I  ever  saw  a  man  bit  in  two 
by  a  shark." 

A  single  occurrence  of  the  kind  seemed  sufficient  for  the  experience 
of  one  life  ;  and  so  I  reasoned  upon  the  major's  nine  duels.  He  must, 
in  the  first  place,  have  been  not  only  jealous  and  swift  to  quarrel ;  but, 
in  the  second,  have  met  with  nine  intemperate  spirits  equally  forward 
with  himself.  It  is  but  in  one  affront  out  of  ten  that  the  duellist  meets 
with  a  duellist :  a  computation  assigning  ninety  mortal  disagreements 
to  his  single  share;  whereas  I,  with  equal  irritability,  and"  as  much 
courage  perhaps,  had  never  exchanged  a  card  m  my  life.  The  subject 
occupied  me  all  the  walk  homeward  through  the  meadows.  "  To  get 
involved  in  nine  duels,''  said  I  ;  "'tis  quite  improbable  !" 

As  I  thought  thus.  1  had  thrust  my  body  halfway  under  a  rough  bar 
that  was  doing  duty  for  a  stile  at  one  end  of  a  field.  It  was  just  too 
high  to  climb  comfortably,  and  just  low  enough  to  be  inconvenient  to 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  HONOUR. 


233 


duck  under  ;  but  I  chose  the  latter  mode,  and  began  to  creep  through 
with  the  deliberateness  consistent  with  doubtful  and  intricate  specula- 
tion. "To  get  involved  in  nine  duels" — here  my  back  hitched  a  little 
at  the  bar — "'tis  quite  impossible  !" 

I  am  persuaded  that  there  is  a  spirit  of  mischief  afoot  in  the  world 
— some  malignant  fiend  to  seize  upon  and  direct  these  accidents  :  for 
just  at  this  nick,  whilst  I  was  boggling  below  the  bar,  there  came  up 
another  passenger  by  the  same  path  :  so  seeing  how  matters  stood,  he 
made  an  attempt  at  once  to  throw  his  leg  over  the  impediment ;  but 
mistaking  the  altitude  by  a  few  inches,  he  kicked  me — where  I  had 
never  been  kicked  before. 

"  By  Heaven  !  this  is  too  bad,"  said  I,  staggering  through  head  fore- 
most from  the  concussion  ;  my  back  was  up,  in  every  sense,  in  a  second. 

The  stranger  apologised  in  the  politest  terms— but  with  such  an 
intolerable  chuckle,  with  such  a  provoking  grin  lurking  about  his  face, 
that  I  felt  fury  enough,  like  Beatrice,  to  "  eat  his  heart  in  the  market- 
place." In  short,  in  two  little  minutes,  from  venting  my  conviction 
upon  duelling,  I  found  myself  engaged  to  a  meeting  for  the  vindication 
of  my  honour. 

There  is  a  vivid  description  in  the  "History  of  Robinson  Crusoe"  of 
the  horror  of  the  solitary  Mariner  at  finding  the  mark  of  a  foot  in  the 
sandy  beach  of  his  Desert  Island.  That  abominable. token,  in  a  place 
that  he  fancied  was  sacred  to  himself — in  a  part,  he  made  sure,  never 
trodden  by  the  sole  of  man — haunted  him  wherever  he  went.  So  did 
mine.  I  bore  about  with  me  the  same  ideal  imprint — to  be  washed 
out,  not  by  the  ocean  brine,  but  with  blood  ! 

As  I  walked  homeward  after  this  adventure,  and  reflected  on  my 
former  opinions,  I  felt  th.t  I  hnd  done  the  gallant  major  an  injustice. 
It  seemed  likely  that  a  man  of  his  profession  might  be  called  out  even 
to  the  ninth  time — nay,  that  men  of  the  peaceful  cloth  might,  on  a 
chance,  be  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  mortal  combat. 

As  for  Gentlemen  at  the  Bar,  I  have  shown  how  they  may  get  into 
an  Affair  of  Honour  in  a  twinkling. 


A  Special  Pleader. 


234 


A  Retrospective  Review. 


A  PARTHIAN  GLANCE. 

"  Sweiit  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 

Oft  up  the  stream  of  time  I  turn  my  sail." — ROGERS, 


Come,  my  Crony,  let's  think  upon  far-away  days, 

And  lift  up  a  little  Oblivion's  veil  ; 
Let's  consider  the  past  with  a  lingering  gaze, 

Like  a  peacock  wh6se  eyes  are  inclined  to  his  tail. 


Ay,  come,  let  us  turn  our  attention  behind. 

Like  tho--;e  critics  whose  heads  are  so  heavy,  I  fear, 

That  they  cannot  keep  up  with  the  march  of  the  mind, 
And  so  turn  face  about  for  reviewing  the  rear. 


III. 


Looking  over  Time's  crupper  and  over  his  tail, 
Oh  !  what  ages  and  pages  there  are  to  revise  ! 

And  as  farther  our  back-searching  glances  prevail, 
Like  the  emmets,  "  how  little  we  are  in  our  eyes  1 " 


A  PARTHIAN  GLANCE.  €35 

IV. 

What  a  sweet  pretty  innocent,  half-a-yard  long, 

On  a  dimity  lap  of  true  nursery  make  ! 
I  can  fancy  I  hear  the  old  lullaby  song 

That  was  meant  to  compose  me,  but  kept  me  awake. 


Methinks  I  still  suffer  the  infantine  throes, 

When  my  flesh  was  a  cushion  for  any  long  pin— 

Whilst  they  patted  my  body  to  comfort  my  woes, 
Oh  1  how  little  they  dreamt  they  were  driving  them  in  I 

VI. 

Infant  sorrows  are  strong — infant  pleasures  as  weak— 
But  no  grief  was  allow'd  to  indul.^^e  in  its  note  ; 

Did  you  ever  attempt  a  small  "  bubble  and  squeak," 
Thro'  the  Dalb/s  Carminative  down  in  your  throat? 

VII. 

Did  you  ever  go  up  to  the  roof  with  a  bounce  ? 

Did  you  ever  come  down  to  the  floor  with  the  same? 
Oh  !  I  can't  but  agree  with  both  ends,  and  pronounce 

"  Head  or  tails"  with  a  child,  an  unpleasantish  game  ! 

VIII. 

Then  an  urchin — I  see  myself  urchin,  indeed. 

With  a  smooth  Sunday  face  for  a  mother's  delight ; 

Why  should  weeks  have  an  end  ? — I  am  sure  there  was  need 
Of  a  Sabbath  to  follow  each  Saturday-night 

IX. 

Was  your  face  ever  sent  to  the  housemaid  to  scrub  ? 

Have  you  ever  felt  huckaback  soften'd  with  sand  ? 
Had  you  ever  your  nose  toweU'd  up  to  a  snub, 

And  your  eyes  knuckled  out  with  the  back  of  the  hand  ? 


Then  a  schoolboy — my  tailor  was  nothing  in  fault. 
For  an  urchin  will  grow  to  a  lad  by  degrees, — 

But  how  well  I  remember  that  "  pepper  and  salt," 
That  was  down  to  the  elbows,  and  up  to  the  knees  1 

XL 

What  a  figure  it  cut  when  as  Nerval  I  spoke  ; 

With  a  lanky  right  leg  duly  planted  before ; 
Whilst  I  told  of  the  chief  that  was  kill'd  by  nt)y  stroke, 

And  extended  my  arms  as  "the  arms  that  he  wore  !" 


836  A  SAILOR'S  APOLOGY  FOR  BOW-LEGS, 


XII. 


Next  a  Lover — Oh  !  say,  were  you  ever  in  love  ? 

With  a  lady  too  cold — and  your  bosom  too  hot  \ 
Have  you  bow'd  to  a  shoe-tie,  and  knelt  to  a  glove? 

Like  a  beau  that  desired  to  be  tied  in  a  knot ! 


XIII. 


With  the  Bride  all  in  white,  and  your  body  in  blue, 
Did  you  wnlk  up  the  aisle — the  genteelest  of  men? 

When  I  think  of  that  beautiful  vision  anew, 
Oh  !  1  seem  but  the  biffin  of  what  I  was  thea  1 


XIV. 


I  am  withered  and  worn  by  a  premature  care, 

And  my  wrinkles  confess  the  decline  of  my  days; 

Old  Time's  busy  hand  has  made  free  with  my  hair. 
And  I'm  seeking  to  hide  it — by  writing  for  bays  I 


A  SAILOR'S  APOLOGY  FOR  BOW-LEGS. 

There's  some  is  born  with  their  legs  straight  by  natur— 

And  some  is  born  with  bow-legs  from  the  first — 

And  some  that  should  have  grow'd  a  good  deal  straightei 

But  they  were  badly  nursed, 
And  set,  you  see,  like  Bacchus,  with  their  pegs 

Astride  of  casks  and  kegs. 
I've  got  myself  a  sort  of  bow  to  larboard 

And  starboard. 
And  this  is  what  it  was  that  warp'd  my  legs  :^ 

*Twas  all  along  of  Poll,  as  I  may  say, 
That  foul'd  my  cable  when  I  ought  to  slip  ; 

But  on  the  tenth  of  May, 

When  I  gets  under  weigh, 
Down  there  in  H  arttordshire,  to  join  my  ship, 

I  sees  the  mail 

Get  under  sail, 
The  only  one  there  was  to  make  the  trip. 

Well,  I  gives  chase, 

But  as  she  run 

Two  knots  to  one. 
There  warn't  no  use  in  keeping  on  the  race  I 

Well,  casting  round  about  what  next  to  try  on, 

And  how  to  spin, 
I  spies  an  ensign  with  a  Bloody  Lion, 
And  bears  away  to  leeward  for  the  inn, 

Beats  round  the  gable, 


A  SAILOR'S  APOLOGY  FOR  BOW-LEGS.  zyj 

And  fetches  up  before  the  coach-horse  stable. 
Well,  there  they  stand,  four  kickers  in  a  row, 

And  so 
I  just  makes  free  to  cut  a  brown  'un's  cable. 
But  riding  isn't  in  a  seaman's  natur  ; 
So  I  whips  out  a  toughish  end  of  yarn, 
And  gets  a  kind  of  sort  of  a  land-waiter 

To  splice  me,  heel  to  heel, 

Under  the  she-mare's  keel, 
And  off  I  goes,  and  leaves  the  inn  a-stam  I 

My  eyes  !  how  she  did  pitch  ! 
And  wouldn't  keep  her  own  to  go  in  no  line, 
The'  I  kept  bowsing,  bowsing  at  her  bow-line. 
But  always  making  lee-way  to  the  ditch, 
And  yaw'd  her  head  about  all  sorts  of  ways. 

The  devil  sink  the  craft ! 
And  wasn't  she  trimendus  slack  in  stays  ! 
We  couldn't,  no  how,  keep  the  inn  abaft ! 

Well,  I  suppose 
We  hadn't  run  a  knot — or  much  beyond — 
(What  will  you  have  on  it  ?) — but  off  she  goes. 
Up  to  her  bends  in  a  fresh-wnter  pond  1 

There  I  am  !  all  a-back  ! 
So  I  looks  forward  for  her  bridle-gears, 
To  heave  her  head  round  on  the  t'other  tack| 

But  when  I  st^:rts, 

The  leather  parts, 
And  goes  away  right  over  by  the  ears  1 

What  could  a  fellow  do, 
Whose  legs,  like  niine,  you  know,  were  in  the  bilboes, 
But  trim  myself  upright  for  bringing-to, 
And  square  his  yard-arms,  and  brace  up  his  elbowSy 

In  rig  all  snug  and  clever, 
Just  while  his  craft  was  taking  in  her  water? 
I  didn't  like  my  burth,  though,  howsomdever. 
Because  the  yarn,  you  see,  kept  getting  taughter. 
Says  I — I  wish  this  job  was  rayther  shorter  ! 

The  chase  had  gain'd  a  mile 
A-head,  and  still  the  she-mare  stood  a-drinking  ; 

Now,  all  the  while 
Her  body  didn't  take,  of  course,  to  shrinking. 
Says  I,  she's  letting  out  her  reefs,  I'm  thinking; 

And  so  she  swell'd,  and  swell'd, 

And  yet  the  tackle  held, 
Till  both  my  legs  began  to  bend  like  winkin. 
My  eyes  !  but  she  took  in  enough  to  founder  1 
And  there's  my  timbers  straming  every  bit. 

Ready  to  split, 
And  her  tarnation  hull  a-growing  rounder ' 


238  "  NOTHING  BUT  HEARTS  I'' 

Well,  there — off  Hartford  Ness, 
We  lay  both  lash'd  and  water-logg'd  together, 

And  can't  contrive  a  signal  of  distress. 
Thinks  I,  we  must  ride  out  this  here  foul  weather, 
Tho'  sick  of  riding  out,  and  nothing  less  ; 
"When,  looking  round,  I  sees  a  man  a-starn  : 
"  Hollo  !  "  says  I,  "  come  underneath  her  quarter  ! " 
And  hands  him  out  my  knife  to  cut  the  yarn. 
So  I  gets  off,  and  lands  upon  the  road, 
And  leaves  the  she-mare  to  her  own  consarn, 

A-standmg  bv  the  water. 
If  I  get  on  anothi.r,  I'll  be  blow'd  ! 
And  that's  the  way,  yoi;  see,  my  legs  got  bow'd  ( 


'  She  is  all  heart." 


"  NOTHING  B  UT  HEARTS  r 

IT  must  have  been  the  lot  of  every  whist-player  to  observe  a  pheno- 
menon at  the  card-table  as  mysterious  as  any  in  nature, — I 
mean  the  constant  recurrence  of  a  certain  trump  throughout  the  night 
— a  run  upon  a  particular  suit,  that  sets  all  the  calculations  of  Hoyle 
and  Cocker  at  defiance.  The  chance  of  lurning-up  is  equal  to  the 
Four  Denominations.  They  should  alternate  with  each  other,  on  the 
average  ;  whereas  a  Heart,  perhaps,  shall  be  the  last  card  of  everv 
deal.  King  or  Queen,  Ace  or  Deuce,  still  it  is  of  the  same  clan.  You 
cut — and  it  comes  again.    "  Nothing  but  Hearts  ! " 


••  NO  THING  BUT  HE  A  RTS/  "  ^39 

The  figure  on  the  other  side  might  be  fancied  to  embody  this  kind  of 
occurrence  ;  and,  in  truth,  it  was  designed  to  commemorate  an  even- 
ing dedicated  to  the  same  red  suit.  I  hnd  loolced  in  by  chance  at 
the  Royal  Institution  :  a  Mr  Professor  Pattison,  of  New  York,  I 
believe,  was  lecturing,  and  the  subject  was — "Nothing  but  Hearts  !" 

Some  hundreds  of  grave,  curious,  or  scientific  personages  were 
ranged  on  the  benches  of  the  Theatre  ; — every  one  in  his  solemn  bhck. 
On  a  table  in  front  of  the  Professor  stood  the  specimens  .  hearts  of 
all  shapes  and  sizes — man's,  woman's,  sheep's,  bullock's — on  platters 
or  in  cloths — were  lying  about  as  familiar  as  household  waies. 
Drawings  of  hearts,  in  black  or  blood-red  (dismal  valentines  !)  hung 
around  the  fearful  walls.  Preparations  of  the  organ,  in  wax  or  bottled, 
passed  currently  from  hand  to  hand,  from  eye  to  eye,  and  returned  to 
the  gloomy  table.  It  was  like  some  solemn  Egyptian  Inquisition — a 
looking  into  dead  men's  hearts  for  their  morals. 

The  Professor  began.  Each  after  each  he  displayed  the  samples; 
the  words  "auricle"  and  "ventricle"  falling  frequently  on  the  ear  as 
he  explained  how  those  "  solemn  organs  ''  pump  in  the  human  breast. 
He  showed,  by  experiments  with  water,  the  operation  of  the  valves 
with  the  blood,  and  the  impossibility  of  its  revulsion.  As  he  spoke, 
an  indescribable  thrilling  or  tremor  crept  over  my  left  breast — thence 
down  my  side — and  all  over.  I  felt  an  awful  consciousness  of  the 
bodily  presence  of  my  heart,  till  then  nothing  more  than  it  is  in  song 
— a  mere  metaphor — so  imperceptible  are  all  the  grand  vital  workings 
of  the  human  frame  !  Now  I  felt  the  organ  distinctly.  There  it 
was  ! — a  fleshy  core — ny,  like  f/iat  on  the  Professor's  plate — throbbing 
away,  auricle  and  ventricle,  the  valve  allowing  the  gushing  blood  at 
so  many  gallons  per  minute,  and  ever  prohibiting  its  return  ! 

The  Professor  proceeded  to  enlnrge  on  the  important  office  of  the 
great  functionary,  and  the  vital  engine  seemed  to  dilate  within  me,  in 
proportion  to  the  sense  of  its  stupendous  responsibility.  I  seemed 
nothing  but  auricle  and  ventricle  and  valve.  I  had  no  breath,  but 
only  pulsations.  Those  who  have  been  present  at  anatomical  dis- 
cussions can  alone  corroborate  this  feeling — how  the  part  discoursed 
of,  by  a  surpassing  sympathy  and  sensibility,  causes  its  counterpart  to 
become  prominent  and  all-engrossing  to  the  sense  ;  how  a  lecture  on 
hearts  makes  a  man  seem  to  himself  as  all  heart  ;  or  one  on  heads 
causes  a  Phrenologist  to  conceive  he  is  "  all  brain." 

Thus  was  I  absorbed  : — my  "bosom's  lord"  lording  over  everything 
beside.  By  and  by,  in  lieu  of  one  solitary  machine,  I  saw  before  me 
a  congregation  of  hundreds  of  human  forcing-pumps,  all  awfully  work- 
ing together — the  palpitations  of  hundreds  of  auricles  and  ventricles, 
the  flapping  of  hundreds  of  valves  !  And  anon  they  collapsed — mine 
■ — the  Professor's — those  on  the  benches — all  !  all  ! — into  one  great 
auricle — one  great  ventricle — one  vast  universal  heart ! 

The  lecture  ended — I  took  up  my  hat  and  walked  out,  but  the  dis- 
course haunted  me.  I  was  full  of  the  subject.  A  kind  of  fluttering, 
which  was  not  to  be  cured  even  by  the  fresh  air,  gave  me  plainly  to 
understand  that  my  heart  was  not  "in  the  Highlands," — nor  in  any 
lady's  keeping — but  where  it  ought  to  be,  in  my  own  bosom,  and  as 
hard  at  work  as  a  parish  pump.     I  plainly  felt  the  blood — like  the 


I|0  JACK  HALL. 

carriages  on  a  birth-night — coming  in  by  the  auricle,  and  going  out 

by  the  ventricle  ;  and  shuddered  to  fancy  what  must  ensue  either  way, 
from  any  "  breaking  the  Hne."  Then  occurred  to  me  the  danger  of 
little  particles  absorbed  in  the  blood,  and  accumulating  to  a  stoppage 
at  the  valve,— the  "  pumps  getting  choked,"— a  sugL'estion  that  made 

me  feel  rather  qualmish,  and  for  relief  I  made  a  call  on  Mrs  W . 

The  visit  was  ill-chosen  and  mistimed  ;  for  the  lady  in  questian,  by 
dint  of  good-nature  and  a  romantic  turn — principally  estimated  by 
her  voung  and  female  acquaintance— had  acquired  the  reputation  of 
being  "all  heart."  The  phrase  had  often  provoked  my  mirth,— but, 
alas !  the  description  was  now  over-true.  Whether  nature  had 
formed  her  in  that  mould,  or  my  own  distempered  fancy,  I  know  not 
—but  there  she  sate,  and  looked  the  Professor's  lecture  over  again. 
She  was  like  one  of  those  games  alluded  to  in  my  beginning—"  No- 
thing but  Hearts  ! "  Her  nose  turned  up.  It  was  a  heart— and  her 
mouth  led  a  trump.  Her  face  gave  a  heart— and  her  cap  followed 
suit.  Her  sleeves  puckered  and  plumped  themselves  into  a  heart- 
shape— and  so  did  her  body.  Her  pin-cushion  was  a  heart— the  very 
back  of  her  chair  was  a  heart — her  bosom  was  a  heart  She  was 
"all  heart"  indeed  1 


JACK  HALL. 


*TlS  very  hard,  when  men  forsake 
This  melancholy  world,  and  make 
A  bed  of  turf,  they  cannot  take 

A  quiet  doze. 
But  certain  rogues  will  come  and  break 

Their  "  bone  repose," 

IL 

Tis  hard  we  can't  give  up  our  breath, 
And  to  the  earth  our  earth  bequeath, 
Without  Death  Fetches  after  death, 

Who  thus  exhume  us  ! 
And  snatch  us  from  our  homes  beneath. 

And  hearths  posthumoo»i 

III. 

The  tender  lover  comes  to  rear 

The  mournful  urn,  and  shed  his  tear~ 

**  Her  glorious  dust,"  he  cries,  "  is  hatif 

Alack  !  alack  1 
The  while  his  Sacharissa  dear 

Is  in  a  sack  J! 


JACK  HALL.  141 


IV. 


Tis  hard  one  cannot  lie  amid 
The  mould,  beneath  a  coffin-lid, 
But  thus  the  Faculty  will  bid 

Their  rogues  break  thr<^  it  I 
If  they  don't  want  us  there,  why  did 

They  send  us  to  it? 


V. 


One  of  these  sacrilegious  knaves, 
Who  crave  as  hungry  vulture  craves, 
Behaving  as  the  ghoul  behaves, 

'Neath  churchyard  wall- 
Mayhap  because  he  fed  on  graves- 
Was  named  Jack  HalL 


VI. 


By  day  it  was  his  trade  to  go 
Tending  the  black  coach  to  and  fro  ; 
And  sometimes  at  the  door  of  woe, 

With  emblems  suitably 
He  stood  with  brother  Mute,  to  show 

That  life  is  mutable. 


VII. 


But  long  before  they  pass'd  the  ferry. 
The  dead  that  he  had  help'd  to  bury 
He  sack'd— (he  had  a  sack  to  carry 

The  bodies  off  in ;) 
In  fact,  he  let  them  have  a  very 

Short  fit  of  coffiiB. 


VIII. 

Night  after  night,  with  crow  and  spad^ 
He  drove  this  dead  but  thriving  trade, 
Meanwhile  his  conscience  never  weigh*d 

A  single  horsehair ; 
On  corses  of  all  kinds  he  prey'd, 

A  perfect  corsair  1 

IX. 

At  last— it  may  be,  Death  took  spite^ 
Or  jesting,  only  meant  to  fright- 
He  sought  for  Jack  night  after  night 

The  churchyards  round  ; 
And  soon  they  met,  the  man  and  sprite, 

In  Pancras'  cjiound. 

0 


a^  JACK  HALL. 


Jack,  by  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
Perceived  the  bony  kmcker  soon, 
An  awful  shape  to  meet  at  noon 

Of  night  and  lonely  ? 
But  Jack's  tough  cour.ige  did  but  swoon 

A  minute  only. 

XI. 

Anon  he  gave  his  spade  a  swing 
Aloft,  and  kept  it  brandishing, 
Ready  for  what  mishaps  might  spring 

From  this  conjunction ; 
Funking  indeed  was  quite  a  thing 

Beside  his  functioiu 

XII. 

*  Hollo  ! "  cried  Death,  "  d'ye  wish  your  sandS 
Run  out?  the  stoutest  never  stands 
A  chance  with  me, — to  my  commands 

The  strongest  truckles ; 
But  I'm  your  friend — so  let's  shnke  hands, 

I  should  say — knuckles." 

XIII. 

Jack,  glad  to  see  th'  old  sprite  so  sprightly, 
And  meaning  nothing  but  uprightly. 
Shook  hands  at  once,  and  bowing  slightly, 

His  mull  did  proffer  : 
But  Death,  who  had  no  nose,  politely 

Declined  the  offer. 

XIV. 

Then  sitting  down  upon  a  bank. 
Leg  over  leg,  shank  over  shank, 
Like  friends  for  conversation  frank, 

That  had  no  check  on  : 
Quoth  Jack  unto  the  Lean  and  Lank, 

"You're  Death,  I  reckon.* 

XV. 

The  Jawbone  grinn'd  : — "  I  am  that  same, 
You've  hit  exactly  on  my  name  ; 
In  truth,  it  has  some  little  fame 

Where  burial  sod  is.* 
Quoth  Jack  (and  wink'd),  "  Of  course  ye  came 

Here  after  bodies." 


JACK  BALL.  a43 


XVL 

Death  grinn'd  again  and  shook  his  head  >— • 
'*  I've  little  business  with  the  dead  ; 
When  they  are  fairly  sent  to  bed 

I've  done  my  turn 
Whether  or  not  the  worms  are  fed 

Is  your  concern. 

XVII. 

•*  My  errand  here,  in  meeting  you, 
Is  nothing  but  a  '  how-d'ye-do  ;' 
I've  done  what  jobs  I  had — a  few 

Along  this  way ; 
If  I  can  serve  a  crony  too, 

I  beg  you'll  say." 

XVIII. 

Quoth  Jack,  "  Your  Honour's  very  kind  X 
And  now  I  call  the  thing  to  mind, 
This  parish  very  strict  1  find  ; 

But  in  the  next  'un 
There  lives  a  very  well-inclined 

Old  sort  of  sexton.* 

XIX, 

Death  took  the  hint,  and  gave  a  wink 
As  well  as  eyelet-holes  can  blink  ; 
Then  stretching  out  his  arm  to  link 

The  other's  arm, — 
** Suppose,"  says  he,  "we  have  a  drink 

Of  something  warm.* 

XX. 

Jack,  nothing  loth,  with  friendly  ease 
Spoke  up  at  once  : — "  Why,  what  ye  please  % 
Hard  by  there  is  the  Cheshire  Cheese, 

A  famous  tap." 
But  this  suggestion  seem'd  to  tease 

The  bony  chap, 

XXI. 

**  No,  no  ? — your  mortal  drinks  are  heady. 
And  only  make  my  hand  unsteady  ; 
I  do  not  even  care  for  Deady, 

And  loathe  your  rum  ; 
But  I've  some  glorious  brewage  ready, 

My  drink  is — mum  ! " 


244 


JACK  HALL. 

xxn. 

And  off  they  set,  each  right  content— 
Who  knows  the  dreary  way  they  went? 
But  Jack  felt  rather  faint  and  spent, 

And  out  of  breath  ; 
At  last  he  saw,  quite  evident, 

The  door  of  Death. 


Death's  Door. 


XXIII. 


All  Other  men  had  been  unmann'd 
To  see  a  coffin  oo  each  hand, 
That  served  a  skeleton  to  stand 

By  way  of  sentry; 
In  fact,  Death  has  a  very  grand 

And  awful  entry. 


XXIV. 

Throughout  his  dismal  sign  prevails. 
His  name  is  writ  in  coffin  nails; 
The  mortal  darts  make  area  rails  ; 

A  skull  that  mocketh 
Grins  on  the  gloomy  gate,  and  quails 

Whoever  knocketh. 


JACK  HALL.  t4S 

XXV. 

And  lo  !  on  either  side  arise 

Two  monstrous  pillars — bones  of  thighs; 

A  monumental  slab  supplies 

The  step  of  stone, 
Where,  waiting  for  his  master,  lies 

A  dog  of  bone. 

XXVI. 

The  dog  leapt  up,  but  gave  no  yell, 
The  wire  was  puU'd,  but  woke  no  bell, 
The  ghastly  knocker  rose  and  fell, 

But  caused  no  riot  ; 
The  ways  of  Death,  we  all  know  well, 

Are  very  quiet. 

XXVII. 

Old  Bones  stept  in  ;  Jack  stept  behind  : 
Quoth  Death,  "  1  really  hope  you'll  find 
The  entertainment  to  your  mind, 

As  I  shall  treat  ye — 
A  friend  or  two  of  goblin  kind 

I've  ask'd  to  meet  ye.* 

XXVIII. 

And  lo  !  a  crowd  of  spectres  tall, 
Like  jack-a-lanterns  on  a  wall, 
Were  standing — every  ghastly  ball 

An  eager  watcher. 
*  My  friends,"  says  Death—"  friends,  Mr  HiJ^ 

The  body-snatcher." 

XXIX. 

Lord  !  what  a  tumult  it  produced 
When  Mr  Hall  was  introduced  ! 
Jack  even,  who  had  long  been  used 

To  frightful  things, 
Felt  just  as  if  his  back  was  sluiced 

With  freezing  springs  I 

XXX. 

Each  goblin  face  began  to  make 

Some  horrid  mouth — ape— gorgon — snake* 

And  then  a  spectre  hag  would  shake 

An  airy  thigh-bone  ; 
And  cried  (or  seem'd  to  cry),  "  I'll  break 

Your  bone,  with  my  bone  »• 


■4*  JACK  HALL. 


XXXI. 

Some  ground  their  teeth — some  seem'd  to  spil 
(Nothing,  but  nothing  came  of  it)  ; 
A  hundred  awful  brows  were  knit 

In  dreadful  spite. 
Thought  Jack — I'm  sure  I'd  better  quit 

Without  good-nighL 

XXXII. 

One  skip  and  hop  and  he  was  clear, 
And  running  like  a  hunted  deer, 
As  fleet  as  people  run  by  fear 

Well  spurr'd  and  whipp'd  ; 
Death,  ghosts,  and  all  in  that  career 

Were  quite  outstripp'd. 

XXXIII. 

But  those  who  live  by  death  must  die  ; 
Jack's  soul  at  last  prepared  to  fly  ; 
And  when  his  latter  end  drew  nigh. 

Oh,  what  a  swarm 
Of  doctors  came,— but  not  to  try 

To  keep  him  warm. 

XXXIV. 

No  ravens  ever  scented  prey 
So  early  where  a  dead  horse  lay, 
Nor  vultures  sniff'd  so  far  away 

A  last  convulse ; 
A  doaen  "  guests  "  day  after  day 

Were  "  at  his  pulse.* 

XXXV. 

Twas  strange,  altho'  they  got  no  fees, 
How  still  they  watch'd  by  twos  and  threes  X 
But  Jack  a  very  little  ease 

Obtain'd  from  them ; 
In  fact,  he  did  not  find  M.D.'s 

Worth  one  D— M. 

XXXVI. 

The  passing  bell  with  hollow  toll 
Was  in  his  thought — the  dreary  hole  1 
Jack  gave  his  eyes  a  horrid  roll, 

And  then  a  cough  : — 
"There's  something  weighing  on  my  soul 

I  wish  was  off  : 


JACK  HALL.  %VI 


XXXVII. 

•  All  night  it  roves  about  my  brains, 
AH  day  it  adds  to  all  my  pains  ; 

Tt  is  concerning  my  remains 

When  I  am  dead." 

Twelve  wigs  and  twelve  gold-headed  canes 
Drew  near  his  bed. 

XXXVIII. 

"  Alas  I "  he  sigh'd,  "  I'm  sore  afraid, 
A  dozen  pangs  my  heart  invade  ; 
But  when  I  drove  a  certain  trade 

In  flesh  and  bone, 
There  was  a  little  bargain  made 

About  my  own." 

XXXIX. 

Twelve  suits  of  black  began  to  close, 
Twelve  pair  of  sleek  and  sable  hose, 
Twelve  flowing  cambric  frills  in  rows, 

At  once  drew  round  ; 
Twelve  noses  turn'd  against  his  nose, 

Twelve  snubs  profound, 

XL. 

*  Ten  guineas  did  not  quite  suffice, 
And  so  I  sold  my  body  twice; 
Twice  did  not  do — I  sold  it  thrice  : 

Forgive  my  crimes  i 
In  short,  I  have  received  its  price 
A  dozen  times  1* 

XLI. 

Twelve  brows  got  very  grim  and  black. 
Twelve  wishes  stretch'd  him  on  the  rack. 
Twelve  pair  of  hands  for  fierce  attack 

Took  up  position. 
Ready  to  share  the  dying  Jack 

By  long  division. 

XLII. 

Twelve  angry  doctors  wrangled  so, 
That  twelve  had  struck  an  hour  ago 
Before  they  had  an  eye  to  throw 

On  the  departed  ; 
Twelve  heads  turn'd  round  at  once,  and  lo  I 

Twelve  doctors  started. 


34S 


THE  WEE  MAM. 


XLIII. 

Whether  some  comrade  of  the  dead, 

Or  Satan  took  it  in  his  head, 

To  steal  the  corpse — the  corpse  had  fled  ! 

'Tis  only  written, 
That  "  there  was  nothmg  in  the  bed. 

But  twelve  were  bitten  I ' 


A  Hard  Row. 


THE  WEE  MAN. 


A   ROMANCE. 


It  was  a  merry  company, 

And  they  were  just  afloat, 
When  lo  !  a  man  of  dwarfish  span, 

Came  up  and  hail'd  the  boat. 

"  Good  morrow  to  ye,  gentle  folks, 

And  will  you  let  me  in  ? 
A  slender  space  will  serve  my  case, 

For  I  am  small  and  thin." 

They  saw  he  was  a  dwarfish  man 

And  very  small  and  thin  ; 
Not  seven  such  would  matter  much, 

And  so  they  took  him  in. 

They  laugh'd  to  see  his  little  hat 
With  such  a  narrow  brim  ; 

They  laugh'd  to  note  his  dapper  coat, 
With  skirts  so  scant  and  trim. 


THE  WEE  MAN.  a49 

But  barely  had  they  gone  a  mile, 

When,  gravely,  one  and  all, 
At  once  began  to  think  the  man 

Was  not  so  very  small : 

His  coat  had  got  a  broader  skirt, 

His  hat  a  broader  brim, 
His  leg  grew  stout,  and  soon  plump'd  out 

A  very  proper  limb. 

Still  on  they  went,  and  as  they  went, 

More  rough  the  billows  grew, 
And  rose  and  fell,  a  greater  swell — 

And  he  was  swelling  too  1 

And  lo  !  where  room  had  been  for  seven, 

For  six  there  scarce  was  space  ! 
For  five  ! — for  four  ! — for  three  ! — not  more 

Than  two  could  find  a  place  ! 

There  was  not  even  room  for  one  1 

They  crowded  by  degrees — 
Ay,  closer  yet,  till  elbows  met, 

And  knees  were  jogging  knees. 

"Good  sir,  you  must  not  sit  a-stem, 

The  wave  will  else  come  in  ! " 
Without  a  word  he  gravely  stirr'd 

Another  seat  to  win. 

**Good  sir,  the  boat  has  lost  her  trim, 

You  must  not  sit  a-lee  !  " 
With  smiling  face,  and  courteous  grace, 

The  middle  seat  took  he. 

But  still  by  constant,  quiet  growth, 

His  back  became  so  wide, 
Each  neighbour  wight,  to  left  and  right, 

Was  thrust  against  the  side. 

Lord  !  how  they  chided  with  themselves, 

That  they  had  let  hirn  in  ; 
To  see  him  grow  so  monstrous  now, 

That  came  so  small  and  thin. 

On  every  brow  a  dewdrop  stood, 

They  grew  so  scared  and  hot,— 
**  r  the  name  of  all  that's  great  and  tall, 

Who  are  ye,  sir,  and  what  ?" 

Loud  laughed  the  Gogmagog  a  laugh, 

As  loud  as  giant's  roar — 
"When  first  I  came,  my  proper  name 

Was  Little — now  I'm  Moore  V 


250 


Penn's  Conference  with  the  Natives. 


PYTHAGOREAN  FANCIES. 


O 


F  all  creeds — after  the  Christian — I  incline  most  to  the  Pytha- 
_  gorean.  I  like  the  notion  of  inhabiting  the  body  of  a  bird.  It 
is  the  next  thing  to  being  a  cherub— at  least,  according  to  the  popular 
image  of  a  boy's  head  and  wmgs  ;  a  fancy  that  savours  strangely  of 
the  Pythagorean. 

I  think  nobly  of  the  soul  with  Malvolio,  but  not  so  meanly  as  he 
does,  by  implication,  of  a  bird-body.  What  disparagement  would  it 
seem  to  shuffle  off  a  crippled,  palsied,  languid,  bedridden  carcase,  and 
find  yourself  floating  above  the  world— in  a  flood  of  sunshine— under 
the  feathers  of  a*  Royal  Eagle  of  the  Andes  .? 

For  a  beast-body  I  have  less  relish — and  yet  how  many  men  are 
there  who  seem  predestined  to  such  an  occupancy,  being  in  this  life 
even  more  than  semi-brutal  !  How  many  human  faces  that  at  least 
countenance,  if  they  do  not  confirm,  this  part  of  the  Brahminical 
doctrme  !  What  apes,  foxes,  pigs,  curs,  and  cats,  walk  our  metropolis 
— to  say  nothing  of  him  shambling  along  Carnaby  or  Whitechapel — 


PYTHAGOREAN  FANCIES.  S51 


A  BUTCHER! 

Whoe'er  has  gone  thro'  London  Street, 
Has  seen  a  Butcher  gazing  at  his  meat. 
And  how  he  keeps 
Gloating  upon  a  sheep's 
Or  bullock's  personals,  as  if  his  own  ; 
How  he  admires  his  halves 
And  quarters — and  his  calves, 
As  if,  in  truth,  upon  his  own  legs  grown  ;^ 

His  fat !  his  suet ! 
His  kidneys  peeping  elegantly  thro*  it  1 
His  thick  flank  1 
And  his  thin  ! 
His  shank  1 
His  shin  I 
Skin  of  his  skin,  and  bone  too  of  his  bone  t 

With  what  an  air 
He  stands  aloof,  across  the  thoroughfare 
Gazing — and  will  not  let  a  body  by, 
Tho'  buy  !  buy  !  buy  !  be  constantly  his  cry. 
Meanwhile,  with  arms  akimbo,  and  a  pair 
Of  Rhodian  legs,  he  revels  in  a  stare 
At  his  Joint  Stock — for  one  may  call  it  so, 

Howbeit  without  a  Co. 
The  dotage  of  self-love  was  never  fonder 
Than  he  of  his  brute  bodies  all  a-row  ; 
Narcissus  in  the  wave  did  never  ponder 

With  love  so  strong, 

On  his  "  portrait  charmant," 
As  our  vain  Butcher  on  his  carcase  yonder. 

Look  at  his  sleek  round  skull  ! 
How  bright  his  cheek,  how  rubicund  his  nose  is  I 

His  visage  seems  to  be 

Ripe  for  beef-tea  ; 
Of  brutal  juices  the  whole  man  is  full. 
In  fact,  fulfilling  the  metempsychosis, 
The  Butcher  is  already  half  a  Bull. 


Surpassing  the  Butcher  in  his  approximation  to  the  brute,  behold 

yon  vagrant  Hassan,  a  wandering  camel-driver  and  exhibitor,  parading, 
for  a  few  pence,  the  creature's  outlandish  hump,  yet  burthened  himself 
with  a  bunch  of  flesh  between  the  shoulders.  For  the  sake  of  the 
implicit  moral  merely,  or  as  an  illustration  of  comparative  physiology, 
the  show  is  valuable ;  but  as  an  example  of  the  Pythagorean  dispense- 


25* 


PYTHAGOREAN  FANCIES. 


tion,  it  is  above  nppraisement.  The  retributive  metamorphosis  has 
commenced — the  Beast  has  set  his  seal  upon  the  Human  Form — a 
httle  further,  and  he  will  be  ready  for  a  halter  and  a  showman. 

As  there  are  instances  of  men  thus  transmuting  into  the  brute,  so 
there  are  brutes  that,  by  iieculiar  human  manners  and  resemblance, 
seem  to  hint  at  a  former  and  a  better  condition.  The  ouran-outang 
and  the  monkey  notoriously  claim  this  relationship  ;  and  there  are 
other  tribes,  and  in  particular  some  which  use  the  erect  posture,  that 
are  apt  to  provoke  such  Pythagorean  associations.  For  example,  I 
could  never  read  of  the  great  William  Penn's  interview  with  the 
American  savages,  or  look  on  the  painting  commemorative  of  that 
event,  without  dreaming  that  I  had  seen  it  acted  over  again  at  the 
meeting  of  a  tribe  of  Kangaroos  and  a  Penguin.  The  Kangaroos, 
sharp-sighted,  vigilant,  cunning,  wild,  swift,  and  active  as  the  Indians 
themselves  ;  the  Penguin,  very  sleek,  guiltless  of  arms,  very  taciturn, 
very  sedate,  except  when  jumping  ;  upright  in  its  conduct — a  perfect 


Comparaiive  Physiology. 


Quaker.  It  confirmed  me,  in  this  last  fancy,  to  read  of  the  conduct 
of  these  gentle  birds  when  assaulted,  formerly,  with  long  poles,  by  the 
seamen  of  Captam  Cook — buftelings  which  the  Penguins  took  quietly 
on  either  cheek,  or  side  of  the  head,  and  died  as  meekly  and  passively 
as  the  primitive  Martyrs  of  the  Sect  ! 

It  is  difficult  to  say  to  what  excesses  the  desire  of  fresh  victual, 
after  long  salt-junketing,  may  drive  a  mariner.  For  my  own  part,  I 
could  not  have  handled  a  pole  in  tlrat  persecution  without  strong 
Pythagorean  misgivings. 

There  is  a  Juvenile  Poem,  "The  Notorious  G]utton,"by  Miss  Taylor 
of  Ongar,  in  which  a  duck  falls  sick  and  dies  in  a  very  human-like 


PYTHAGOREAN  tANClES. 


253 


way.  I  could  never  eat  duck  for  some  time  after  the  perusal  of  those 
verses  ;  it  seemed  as  if  in  reahty  the  soul  of  my  gr  .nciam  might  inh.ibit 
such  a  bird.  In  mere  tenderness  to  past  womanhood,  I  could  never 
lay  the  death-scene  elsewhere  than  in  a  lady's  chamber,  with  the  body 
of  the  invalid  propped  up  by  comfortable  pillows  on  a  nursery  chair. 
The  sick  attendant  seem  d  one  that  had  relished  drams  aforetime — 
had  been  pompously  officious  at  human  dissolutions,  and  would 
announce  that  "all  was  over  !"  with  the  same  flapping  of  paws  and 
duck-like  inflections  of  tone.  As  for  the  Physician,  he  was  an  Ex- 
Quack  of  our  own  kind,  just  called  in  from  the  pond — a  sort  of  Man- 
Drake,  and  formerly  a  brother  by  nature,  as  now  by  name,  of  the  author 
of  "Winter  Nights." 


The  Last  Visit, 


254 


CJia) 


^■^^4iUmffM+^4H4U:' 


** DON'T  YOU  SMELL  FIREi"* 


Run  !  run  for  St  Clements's  engine ! 

For  the  Pawnbroker's  all  in  a  blaze, 
And  the  pledges  are  frying  and  singeing — 

Oh  !  how  the  poor  pawners  will  craze  ! 
Now  where  can  the  turncock  be  drinking  ? 

Was  there  ever  so  thirsty  an  elf? 
But  he  still  may  tope  on,  for  I'm  thinking 

That  the  plugs  are  as  dry  as  himself. 


II. 

The  engines  ! — I  hear  them  come  rumbling ; 

There's  the  Phoenix  !  the  Globe  !  and  the  Sun! 
What  a  row  there  will  be,  and  a  grumbling, 

When  the  water  don't  start  for  a  run  ! 
See  !  there  they  come  racing  and  tearing, 

All  the  street  with  loud  voices  is  fiU'd  ; 
Oh  !  it's  only  the  firemen  a-swearing 

At  a  man  they've  run  over  and  kill'd  J 


** DON'T  YOU  SMELL  FIRE  f*  ^55 

III. 

How  sweetly  the  sparks  fly  away  now, 

And  twinkle  like  stars  in  the  sky. 
It's  a  wonder  the  engines  don't  play  now  ; 

But  I  never  saw  water  so  shy  ! 
Why  there  isn't  enough  for  a  snipe, 

And  the  fire  it  is  fiercer,  alas  ! 
Oh  !  instead  of  the  New  River  pipe, 

They  have  gone — that  they  have — to  the  gas  I 

IV, 

Only  look  at  the  poor  little  P ^'s 

On  the  roof.     Is  there  anything  sadder? 
My  dears,  keep  fast  hold,  if  you  please, 

And  they  won't  be  an  hour  with  the  ladder  I 
But  if  any  one's  hot  in  their  feet, 

And  in  very  great  haste  to  be  saved, 
Here's  a  nice  easy  bit  in  the  street, 

That  M'Adam  has  lately  unpaved  1 


There  is  some  one — I  see  a  dark  shape— 

At  that  window,  the  hottest  of  all, — 
My  good  woman,  why  don't  you  escape  ? 

Never  think  of  your  bonnet  and  shawl : 
If  your  dress  isn't  perfect,  what  is  it 

For  once  in  a  way  to  your  hurt  ? 
"When  your  husband  is  paying  a  visit 

There,  at  Number  Fourteen,  in  his  shirt  I 

VI. 

Only  see  how  she  throws  out  her  chaney  I 

Her  basins,  and  teapots,  and  all 
The  most  brittle  of  her  goods — or  any, 

But  they  all  break  in  breaking  their  fall  I 
Such  things  are  not  surely  the  best 

From  a  two-storey  window  to  throw- 
She  might  save  a  good  iron-bound  chest| 

For  there's  plenty  of  people  below  ? 

VII. 

O  dear  !  what  a  beautiful  flash  I 

How  it  shone  thro'  the  window  and  door ; 
We  shall  soon  hear  a  scream  and  a  crash, 

When  the  woman  falls  thro'  w  ith  the  floor  I 
There  !  there  !  what  a  volley  of  flame, 

And  then  suddenly  all  is  obscured  !— 
Well,  I'm  glad  in  my  heart  that  I  came  ;— 

But  I  hope  the  poor  man  is  insured ! 


256 


The  Angel  of  Death. 


THE   VOLUNTEER. 


*'  The  clashing  of  my  armour  in  my  ears 
Sounds  like  a  passing  bell  ;  my  buckler  puts  me 
In  mind  of  bier  ;   this,  my  broadsword,  a  pickaxc 
To  dig  my  grave." — T/ie  Lover's  Progress. 


'TWAS  in  that  memorable  year 
France  threaten'd  to  put  off  in 
Flat-bottom'd  boats,  intending  each 
To  be  a  British  coffin, 
To  make  sad  widows  of  our  wives, 
And  every  babe  an  orphan  : — 


When  coats  were  made  of  scarlet  cloaks^ 

And  heads  were  dredged  with  flour, 

I  listed  in  the  Lawyers'  Corps, 

Against  the  battle  hour  ; 

A  perfect  Volunteer — for  why  ? 

I  brought  my  "  will  and  power." 


THE  VOLUNTEER.  wg 


III. 

One  dreary  day — a  day  of  dread. 

Like  Cato's,  overcast — 

About  the  hour  of  six  (the  mom 

And  I  were  breaking  fast), 

There  came  a  loud  and  sudden  sound, 

That  struck  me  all  aghast ! 

IV. 

A  dismal  sort  of  morning  roll, 
That  was  not  to  be  eaten  : 
Although  it  was  no  skin  of  mine, 
But  parchment  that  was  beaten, 
I  felt  tattoo'd  through  all  my  flesh. 
Like  any  Otaheitan. 

V. 

My  jaws  with  utter  dread  enclosed 

The  morsel  I  was  munching, 

And  terror  lock'd  them  up  so  tight, 

My  very  teeth  went  crunching 

AH  through  my  bread  and  tongue  at  once^ 

Like  sandwich  made  at  lunching. 

VI. 

My  hand,  that  held  the  teapot  fast, 

Stiffen'd,  but  yet  unsteady. 

Kept  pouring,  pouring,  pouring  o'er 

The  cup  in  one  long  eddy. 

Till  both  my  hose  were  mark'd  with  im. 

As  they  were  mark'd  already. 

VII. 

I  felt  my  visage  turn  from  red 
To  white — from  cold  to  hot ; 
But  it  was  nothing  wonderful 
My  colour  changed,  I  wot, 
For,  like  some  variable  silk% 
I  felt  that  I  was  shot 

VIII. 

And  looking  forth  with  anxious  ey© 

From  my  snug  upper  storey, 

I  saw  our  melancholy  corps 

Going  to  beds  all  gory  ; 

The  pioneers  seem'd  very  loth 

To  axe  their  way  to  glory. 


2^8 


THE  VOLUNTEER, 


IX. 


n»<  captain  march'd  as  mourners  march* 

Th«s  'tnsign  too  seem'd  lagging, 
And  many  more,  although  they  were 
No  ensigns,  took  to  flagging — 
Like  corpses  in  the  Serpentine, 
Methought  they  wanted  dragging. 


X. 


But  while  I  watch'd,  the  thought  of  death 

Came  like  a  chilly  gust, 

And  lo  !  I  shut  the  window  down,    ^ 

With  very  little  lust 

To  join  so  many  marching  men, 

That  soon  might  be  March  dust. 


XL 


Quoth  I,  "  Since  Fate  ordains  it  so, 

Our  foe  the  coast  must  land  on  ;" — 

I  felt  so  warm  beside  the  fire 

I  cared  not  to  abandon  ; 

Our  hearths  and  homes  are  always  thing! 

That  patriots  make  a  stand  on. 


XII. 


"The  fools  that  fight  abroad  for  hom^ 
Thought  I,  "  may  get  a  wrong  one  ; 
Let  those  that  have  no  homes  at  all 
Go  battle  for  a  long  one." 
The  mirror  here  confirm'd  me  this 
Reflection  by  a  strong  one  : 


XIII. 

For  there,  where  I  was  wont  to  shav«j| 
And  deck  me  like  Adonis, 
There  stood  the  leader  of  our  foes, 
With  vultures  for  his  cronies — 
No  Corsican,  but  Death  himself 
The  Bony  of  all  Bonies. 

XIV. 

A  horrid  sight  it  was,  and  sadf 
To  see  the  grisly  chap 
Put  on  my  crimson  livery, 
And  then  begin  to  clap 
My  helmet  on— ah  me  !  it  felt 
Like  any  felon's  cap. 


THE  VOLUNTEER.  959 

XV. 

My  plume  seem'd  borrow'd  from  a  he:Krse, 

An  undertaker's  crest  ; 

My  epaulettes  like  coffin-plates  ; 

My  belt  so  heavy  press'd, 

Four  pipeclay  cross-roads  seem'd  to  lie 

At  once  upon  my  breast 

XVI. 

My  brazen  breastplate  only  lack'd 

A  little  heap  of  salt, 

To  make  me  like  a  corpse  full  dress'd. 

Preparing  for  the  vault — 

To  set  up  what  the  poet  calls 

My  everlasting  halt. 

XVII. 

This  funeral  show  inclined  me  quite 

To  peace  : — and  here  I  am  ! 

Whilst  better  lions  go  to  war, 

Enjoying  with  the  lamb 

A  lengthen'd  life,  that  might  have  bcea 

A  martial  epigram. 


26o 


Bride  and  Bridesmaid. 


A  MARRIAGE  PROCESSION. 


IT  has  never  been  my  lot  to  marry,  whatever  I  may  have  written  of 
one  Honoria  to  the  contrary.  My  affair  with  that  lady  never 
reached  beyond  a  very  embarrassing  declaration,  in  return  for  which 
she  breathed  into  my  dull,  deaf  ear  an  inaudible  answer.  It  was  beyond 
my  slender  assurance,  in  those  days,  to  ask  for  a  repetition,  whether 
of  acceptance  or  denial. 

One  chance  for  explanation  still  remained.  I  wrote  to  her  mother, 
to  bespeak  her  sanction  to  our  union,  and  received,  by  return  of  post, 
a  scrawl  that,  for  aught  I  knew,  might  be  in  Sanscrit.  I  question 
whether,  even  at  this  time,  my  intolerable  bashfulness  would  suffer  me 
to  press  such  a  matter  any  farther. 

My  thoughts  of  matrimony  are  now  confined  to  occasional  day-dreams, 
originating  in  some  stray  glimpse  in  the  Prayer-Book,  or  the  receipt  of 
bridecake.  It  was  on  some  such  occurrence  that  I  fell  once,  Bunyan- 
like,  into  an  allegory  of  a  wedding. 

My  fancies  took  the  order  of  a  procession.  With  flaunting  banners, 
it  wound  its  Alexandrine  way — in  the  manner  of  some  of  Martin's 
painted  pageants — to  a  taper  spire  in  the  distance.  And  first,  like  a 
band  of  livery,  came  the  honourable  company  of  Match-makers,  all 
mature  spinsters  and  matrons — and  as  like  aunts  and  mothers  as  may 
be.  The  Glovers  trod  closely  on  their  heels.  Anon  came,  in  blue  and 
gold,  the  parish  beadle,  Scarabcus  Parochialis,  with  the  ringers  of  the 
hand-bells.  Then  came  the  Banns — it  was  during  the  reign  of  Lord 
Eldon's  Act — three  sturdy  pioneers,  with  their  three  axes,  and  likely  to 


A  MARRIAGE  PROCESSION. 


«     a6i 


hew  down  sterner  impediments  than  lie  commonly  in  the  path  of  mar- 
riage. On  coming  nearer,  the  countenance  of  the  first  was  right  foolish 
and  perplexed  ;  of  the  second,  simpering  ,  and  the  last,  methought, 
looked  sedate,  and  as  if  dashed  with  a  little  fear.  After  the  Banns, 
like  the  Judges  following  the  halberts,  came  the  Joiners  :  no  rough 
mechanics,  but  a  portly,  full-blown  vicar,  with  his  clerk — both  rubi- 
cund— a  peony  paged  by  a  pink.  It  made  me  smile  to  observe  the  droll 
clerical  turn  of  the  clerk's  beaver,  scrubbed  into  that  fashion  by  his  coat, 
at  the  nape.  The  marriage-knot,  borne  by  a  ticket-porter,  came  after  the 
divine,  and  raised  associations  enough  to  sadden  one,  but  for  a  pretty 
Cupid  that  came  on  laughing  and  trundling  a  hoop-ring. 

The  next  group  was  a  numerous  one,  Firemen  of  the  Hand-in-Hand, 
with  the  Union  flag — the  chief  actors  were  near.  With  a  mixture  of 
anxiety  and  curiosity,  I  looked  out  for  the  impending  couple,  when — 
how  shall  I  tell  it? — I  beheld,  not  a  brace  of  young  lovers,  a  Romeo 
and  Juliet — not  a  "he-moon  here,  and  a  she-sun  there" — not  bride  and 


Joiners. 


bridegroom,  but  the  happy  pear,  a  solitary  Bergamy,  carried  on  a 
velvet  cushion  by  a  little  foot-page.  I  could  have  foresworn  my  fancy 
for  ever  for  so  wretched  a  conceit,  till  I  remembered  that  it  was  in- 
tended, perhaps,  to  typify,  under  that  figure,  the  mysterious  resolution 
of  two  into  one,  a  pair  nominally,  but  in  substance  single,  which  belongs 
to  marriage.  To  make  amends,  the  high  contracting  parties  approached 
in  proper  person — a  duplication  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  the  oldest 
Masters  in  their  historical  pictures.  It  took  a  brace  of  Cupids,  with  a 
halter,  to  overcome  the  "sweet  reluctant  delay"  of  the  Bride,  and 
make  her  keep  pace  with  the  procession.     She  was  absorbed  like  a 


262 


A  MARRIAGE  PROCESSION. 


nun  in  her  veil  ;  tears,  too,  she  dropped,  larga  as  sixpences,  in  liei 
path  ;  but  her  attendant  Bridesmaid  put  on  such  a  coquettish  look, 
and  tripped  along  so  airily,  that  it  cured  all  suspicion  of  heartache  in 
such  maiden  showers.  The  Bridegroom,  dressed  for  the  Honeymoon, 
was  ushered  by  Hymen,  a  little  link-boy  ;  and  the  imp  used  the  same 
importunity  for  his  dues.  The  next  was  a  motley  crew.  For  nuptial 
ode  or  Carmen,  there  walked  two  carters  or  draymen,  with  their  whips; 
a  leash  of  footmen  m  livery  indicated  Domestic  Habits;  and  Doinestic 
Comfort  was  personated  by  an  ambulating  advertiser  of  "  Hot  Dinners 
every  day." 

I  forget  whether  the  Bride's  Character  preceded  or  followed  her  ; 
but  it  was  a  lottery  placard,  and  blazoned  her  as  One  of  Ten  Thou- 
sand. The  parents  of  both  families  had  a  quiet  smile  on  their  faces, 
hinting  that  their  enjoyment  was  of  a  retrospective  cast  ;  and  as  for 
the  six  sisters  of  the  Bride,  they  would  have  wept  with  her,  but  that 
six  young  gallants  came  after  them.  The  friends  of  the  family  were 
Quakers,  and  seemed  to  partake  of  the  happiness  of  the  occasion  in  a 
very  quiet  and  Quaker-like  way.  I  ought  to  mention  that  a  band  of 
harmonious  sweet  music  preceded  the  Happy  Pair.  There  was  none 
came  after— the  veteran  Townsend,  with  his  constables,  to  keep  order, 
making  up  the  rear  of  the  procession. 


A  Man  in  the  Honeymoon. 


2b3 


Encompass  d  in  an  anger's  frame 


THE  WIDOW. 

One  widow  at  a  grave  will  sob 
A  little  while,  and  weep,  and  sigh  ; 
If  two  should  meet  on  such  a  job, 
They'll  have  a  gossip  by  and  by, 
If  three  should  come  together — why. 
Three  widows  are  good  company  ! 
If  four  should  meet  by  any  chance, 
Four  is  a  number  very  nice 
To  have  a  rubber  in  a  trice — 
But  five  will  up  and  have  a  dance  ! 

Poor  Mrs  C (why  should  I  not 

Declare  her  name  ? — her  name  was  Cross) 

Was  one  of  those  the  "common  lot" 

Had  left  to  weep  "  no  common  loss  : " 

For  she  had  lately  buried  then 

A  man,  the  "  very  best  of  men," 

A  lingering  truth,  discover'd  first 

Whenever  men  "  are  at  the  worst/' 

To  take  the  measure  of  her  woe. 

It  was  some  dozen  inches  deep — 

I  mean  in  crape — and  hung  so  low. 

It  hid  the  drops  she  did  7iot  weep  ° 

In  fact,  what  human  life  appears, 

It  was  a  perfect  "  veil  of  tears/' 


a64  THE  WIDOW. 


Though  ever  since  she  lost  "  her  prop 
And  stay," — alas  !  he  wouldn't  stay — 
She  never  had  a  tear  to  mop, 
Except  one  little  angry  drop 
From  Passion's  eye,  as  Moore  would  say  ; 
Because,  when  Mister  Cross  took  flight, 
It  look'd  so  very  like  a  spite — 
He  died  upon  a  washing-day ! 

Still  Widow  Cross  went  twice  a  weel^ 
As  if  "  to  wet  a  widow's  cheek," 
And  soothe  his  grave  with  sorrow's  gravy,— 
'Twas  nothing  but  a  make-believe, 
She  might  as  well  have  hoped  to  grieve 
Enough  of  brine  to  float  a  navy  ; 
And  yet  she  often  seem'd  to  raise 
A  cambric  kerchief  to  her  eye — 
A  duster  ought  to  be  the  phrase, 
Its  work  was  all  so  very  dry. 
The  springs  were  lock'd  that  ought  to  flow- 
In  England  or  in  widow-woman — 
As  those  that  watch  the  weather  know, 
Such  "  backward  Springs  "  are  not  uncommon. 

But  why  did  Widow  Cross  take  pains 

To  call  upon  the  "dear  remains," — 

Remains  that  could  not  tell  a  jot 

Whether  she  ever  wept  or  not, 

Or  how  his  relict  took  her  losses  ? 

Oh  !  my  black  ink  turns  red  for  shnme— 

But  still  the  naughty  world  must  learn, 

There  was  a  little  German  came 

To  shed  a  tear  in  "  Anna's  Urn," 

At  that  next  grave  to  Mr  Cross's  ! 

For  there  an  angel's  virtues  slept, 

"Too  soon  did  Heaven  assert  its  claim  I* 

But  still  her  painted  face  he  kept, 

**  Encompass'd  in  an  angel's  frame." 

He  look'd  quite  sad  and  quite  deprived  ; 
His  head  was  nothing  but  a  hat-band  ; 
He  look'd  so  lone,  and  so  ?/«wived, 
That  soon  the  Widow  Cross  contrived 
To  fall  in  love  with  even  that  band  ; 
And  all  at  once  the  brackish  juices 
Came  gushing  out  thro'  sorrow's  sluices — 
Tear  after  tear  too  fast  to  wipe, 
Tho'  sopp'd,  and  sopp'd,  and  sopp'd  again— 
No  leak  in  sorrow's  private  pipe. 
But  like  a  bursting  on  the  main  ! 
Whoe'er  has  watch'd  the  window-pane — 


THE  WIDOW.  261; 

I  mean  to  say  in  showery  weather- 
Has  seen  two  little  drops  of  rain, 
Like  lovers  very  fond  and  fain, 
At  one  another  creeping,  creeping, 
Till  both,  at  last,  embrace  together  : 
So  fared  it  with  that  couple's  weeping  1 
The  principle  was  quite  as  active — 

Tear  unto  tear 

Kept  drawing  near, 
Their  very  blacks  became  attractive 
To  cut  a  shortish  story  shorter, 
Conceive  them  sitting  ttte-d-tete — 
Two  cups,' — hot  muffins  on  a  plate, — • 
With  "  Anna's  Urn  "  to  hold  hot  water  ! 
The  brazen  vessel  for  awhile 
Had  lectured  in  an  easy  song, 
Like  Abernethy — on  the  bile. 
The  scalded  herb  was  getting  strong  ; 
All  seem'd  as  smooth  as  smooth  could  be, 
To  have  a  cosy  cup  of  tea. 
Alas  !    how  often  human  sippers 
With  unexpected  bitters  meet, 
And  buds,  the  sweetest  of  the  sweet. 
Like  sugar,  only  meet  the  nippers  ! 

The  Widow  Cross,  I  should  have  told, 
Had  seen  three  husbands  to  the  mould ; 
She  never  sought  an  Indian  pyre, 
Like  Hindoo  wives  that  lose  their  loves  ; 
But,  with  a  proper  sense  of  fire, 
Put  up,  instead,  with  "  three  removes." 
Thus,  when  with  any  tender  words 
Or  tears  she  spoke  about  her  loss, 
The  dear  departed  Mr  Cross 
Came  in  for  nothing  but  his  thirds  ; 
For,  as  all  widows  love  too  well, 
She  liked  upon  the  list  to  dwell, 
And  oft  ripp'd  up  the  old  disasters. 
She  might,  indeed,  have  been  supposed 
A  great  ship  owner  ;  for  she  prosed 
Eternally  of  her  Three  Masters  ! 

Thus,  foolish  woman,  while  she  nursed 
Her  mild  souchong,  she  talk'd  and  reckon'd 
What  had  been  left  her  by  her  first, 
And  by  her  last,  and  by  her  second. 
Alas  !  not  all  her  annual  rents 
Could  then  entice  the  little  German,— 
Not  Mr  Cross's  Three  per  Cents, 
Or  Consols,  ever  make  him  her  man. 
He  liked  her  cash,  he  liked  her  houses, 
But  not  that  dismal  bit  of  land 


ftf  A  MAD  DOG. 


She  always  settled  on  her  spouses. 

So  taking  up  his  hat  and  band, 

Slid  he,  "You'll  think  my  conduct  odd— 

But  here  my  hopes  no  more  may  linger; 

I  thought  you  had  a  wedding-finger. 

But  oh  ! — it  is  a  curtain-rod  !" 


A  MAD  DOG 

IS  none  of  my  bugbears.  Of  the  bite  of  dogs,  large  ones  especially, 
I  have  a  reasonable  dread  ;  but  as  to  any  participation  in  the 
canine  frenzy,  I  am  somewhat  sceptical.  The  notion  savours  of  the 
same  fanciful  superstition  that  invested  the  subjects  of  Dr  Jenner 
with  a  pair  of  horns.  Such  was  affirmed  to  be  the  effect  of  the  vaccine 
matter ;  and  I  shall  believe  what  I  have  heard  of  the  canine  virus, 
when  I  see  a  rabid  gentleman,  or  gentlewoman,  with  flap-ears,  dew- 
claws,  and  a  brush-tail ! 

I  lend  no  credit  to  the  imputed  effects  of  a  mad  dog's  saliva.  We 
hear  of  none  such  amongst  the  West  Indian  Negroes,  and  yet  their 
condition  is  always  slavery. 

I  put  no  faith  in  the  vulgar  stories  of  human  beings  betaking  them- 
selves, through  a  dog  bite,  to  dog  habits ;  and  consider  the  smother- 
ings and  drownings  that  have  originated  in  that  fancy  as  cruel  as  the 
murders  for  witchcraft.  Are  we,  for  a  few  yelpings,  to  stifle  all  the 
disciples  of  Loyola — Jesuits  Bark — or  plunge  unto  death  all  the  con- 
valescents who  may  take  to  bark  and  wine  ? 

As  for  the  hydrophobia,  or  loathing  of  water,  I  have  it  mildly  myself. 
My  head  turns  invariably  at  thin,  washy  potations.  With  a  dog, 
indeed,  the  case  is  different :  he  is  a  water-drinker,  and  when  he  takes 
to  grape-juice,  or  the  stronger  cordials,  may  be  dangerous.  But  I  have 
never  seen  one  with  a  bottle — except  at  his  tail. 

There  are  other  dogs  who  are  born  to  haunt  the  liquid  element,  to 
dive  and  swim,  and  for  such  to  shun  the  lake  or  the  pond  would  look 
suspicious.  A  Newfoundlander,  standing  up  from  a  shower  at  a  door- 
way, or  a  Spaniel  with  a  Parapluie,  might  be  innocently  destroyed. 
But  when  does  such  a  cur  occur  ? 

There  are  persons,  however,  who  lecture  on  Hydrophobia  very 
dogmatically.  It  is  one  of  their  maggots,  that  if  a  puppy  be  not 
wormed,  he  is  apt  to  go  rabid.  As  if,  forsooth,  it  made  so  much 
difference,  his  merely  speaking  or  not  with  what  Lord  Duberly  calls 
his  "  vermicular  tongue  !"  Verily,  as  Izaak  Walton  would  say,  these 
gudgeons  take  the  worm  very  kindly  ! 

Next  to  a  neglect  of  calling  in  Dr  Gardner,  want  of  water  is  prone  to 
drive  a  dog  mad.  A  reasonable  saying — but  the  rest  is  not  so  plausible, 
viz ,  that  if  you  keep  a  dog  till  he  is  very  dry,  he  will  refuse  to  drink. 
It  is  a  gross  libel  on  the  human-like  instinct  of  the  animal,  to  sappose 
him  to  act  so  clean  contrary  to  human-kind.     A  crew  of  sailors,  thirsC* 


A  MAD  DOG.  a67 

ing  at  sea,  will  suck  their  pumps  or  the  canvas — anything  that  will 
afford  a  drop  of  moisture  ;  whereas  a  parching  dog,  instead  of  cooling 
his  tongue  at  the  next  gutter,  or  licking  his  own  kennel  for  imaginary 
relief,  runs  senselessly  up  and  down  to  overheat  himself,  and  resents 
the  offer  of  a  bucket  like  a  mortal  affront.  Away  he  scuds,  straight- 
forward like  a  marmot,  except  when  he  dodges  a  pump.  A  glimmer- 
ing instinct  guides  him  to  his  old  haunts.  He  bites  his  ex-master, 
grips  his  trainer,  takes  a  snap  with  a  friend  or  two  where  he  used 
to  visit — and  then,  biting  right  and  left  at  the  public,  at  last  dies — a 
pitchfork  in  his  eye,  fifty  slugs  in  his  ribs,  and  a  spade  at  the  small 
of  his  back. 

The  career  of  the  animal  is  but  a  type  of  his  victim's — suppose  some 
Bank  Clerk.  He  was  not  bitten,  but  only  splashed  on  the  hand  by 
the  mad  foam  or  dog-spray ;  a  recent  flea-bite  gives  entrance  to  the 


Hydrophobia. 


virus,  and  in  less  than  three  years  it  gets  possession.  Then  the 
tragedy  begins.  The  unhappy  gentleman  first  evinces  uneasiness  at 
being  called  on  for  his  New  River  rates.  He  answers  the  Collector 
snappishly,  and  when  summoned  to  pay  for  his  supply  of  water,  tells 
the  Commissioners  doggedly  that  they  may  cut  it  off.  From  that 
time  he  gets  worse.  He  refuses  slops — turns  up  a  pug  nose  at  pump- 
water — and  at  last,  on  a  washing-day,  after  flying  at  the  laundress, 
rushes  out,  ripe  for  hunting,  to  the  street.  A  twilight  remembrance 
leads  him  to  the  house  of  his  intended.  He  fastens  on  her  hand — 
next  worries  his  mother — takes  a  bite  apiece  out  of  his  brothers  and 
sisters — runs  a  muck,  "  giving  tongue,"  all  through  the  suburbs — and 
finally  is  smothered  by  a  pair  of  bed-beaters  in  Moorfields. 


l68  A  MAD  DOG. 

According  to  popular  theory,  the  mischief  ends  not  here.  The  dog's 
master — the  trainer — the  friends,  human  and  canine — the  Bank  Clerks— 
the  laundresses — -sweetheart — mother  and  sisters — the  two  bed-beaters 
— all  inherit  the  rabies,  and  run  about  to  bite  others.  It  is  a  wonder, 
the  madness  increasing  by  this  ratio,  that  examples  are  not  running 
in  packs  at  every  turn  : — my  experience,  notwithstanding,  records  but 
one  instance. 

It  was  my  Aunt's  brute.  His  temper  latterly  had  altered  for  the 
worse,  and  in  a  sullen  or  insane  fit  he  made  a  snap  at  the  cook's 
radish-like  fingers.  The  act  demanded  an  inquest  de  lunatico  in- 
quirendo — he  was  lugged  neck  and  crop  to  a  full  bucket  ;  but  you 
may  bring  a  horse  to  the  water,  says  the  proverb,  yet  not  make  him 
drink,  and  the  cur  asserted  the  same  independence.  To  make  sure, 
Betty  cast  the  whole  gallon  over  him,  a  favour  that  he  received  with  a 
mood  that  would  have  been  natural  in  any  mortal.  His  growl  was 
conclusive.  The  cook  alarmed  first  the  family,  and  then  the  neigh- 
bourhood, which  poured  all  its  males  capable  of  bearing  arms  into  the 
passage.  There  were  sticks,  staves,  swords,  and  a  gun,  a  prong  or 
two,  moreover,  glistened  here  and  there.  The  kitchen  door  was  occu- 
pied by  the  first  rank  of  the  column,  their  weapons  all  bristling  in 
advance  ;  and  right  opposite — at  the  further  side  of  the  kitchen,  and 
holding  all  the  army  at  bay — stood  Hydrophobia  "  in  its  most  dreadful 
form  ! " 

Conceive,  Mulready  !  under  this  horrible  figure  of  speech,  a  round, 
goggle-eyed  pug-face,  supported  by  two  stumpy  bandy-legs — the  fore- 
limbs  of  a  long,  pampered,  sausage-like  body,  that  rested  on  a  similar 
pair  of  crotchets  at  the  other  end  !  Not  without  short  wheezy  pant- 
ings,  he  began  to  waddle  towards  the  guarded  entry  ;  but  before  he 
had  accomplished  a  quarter  of  the  distance,  there  resounded  the  report 
of  a  musket  The  poor  Turnspit  gave  a  yell — the  little  brown  bloated 
body  tumbled  over,  pierced  by  a  dozen  slugs,  but  not  mortally  ;  for 
before  the  piece  could  be  reloaded,  he  contrived  to  lap  up  a  little  pool 
—from  Betty's  bucket— that  had  settled  beside  the  hearth. 


269 


Drill  and  Broadcast. 

JOHN  TROT. 

A   BALLAD. 


John  Trot  he  was  as  tall  a  lad 

As  York  did  ever  rear — 
As  his  dear  Granny  used  to  say, 

He'd  make  a  grenadier. 

n. 

A  Serjeant  soon  came  down  to  York 
Wilh  ribbons  and  a  frill  ; 

My  lads,  said  he,  let  broadcast  be, 
And  come  away  to  drill. 


III. 


But  when  he  wanted  John  to  'list, 

In  war  he  saw  no  fun, 
Where  what  is  call'd  a  raw  recruit 

Gets  often  overdone. 


270  JOHN  TROT, 


IV. 


Let  others  carry  guns,  said  he, 
And  go  to  war's  alarms, 

But  I  have  got  a  shoulder-knot 
Imposed  upon  my  arms. 


V. 


For  John  he  had  a  footman's  place 
To  wait  on  Lady  Wye — 

She  was  a  dumpy  woman,  tho' 
Her  family  was  high. 


VI. 


Now  when  two  years  had  past  away, 

Her  Lord  took  very  ill, 
And  left  her  to  her  widowhood, 

Of  course  more  dumpy  stilL 


VII. 


Said  John,  I  am  a  proper  man, 

And  very  tall  to  see  ; 
Who  knows,  but  now  her  Lord  is  low> 

She  may  look  up  to  me  ? 


VIII. 


A  cunning  woman  told  me  onc^ 
Such  fortune  would  turn  up  ; 

She  was  a  kind  of  sorceress, 
But  studied  in  a  cup  ! 


IX. 


So  he  walk'd  up  to  Lady  Wye, 
And  took  her  quite  amazed, — ' 

She  thought,  tho'  John  was  tall  enough, 
He  wanted  to  be  raised. 


X. 


But  John — for  why  ?  she  was  a  dame 

Of  such  a  dwarfish  sort- 
Had  only  come  to  bid  her  make 

Her  mourning  very  short. 


XI. 


Said  he,  Your  Lord  is  dead  and  cold. 

You  only  cry  in  vain  ; 
Not  all  the  Cries  of  London  now 

Could  call  him  back  again  ! 


JOHN  TROT.  *1» 

XII. 


Youll  soon  have  many  a  noble  beai^ 
To  dry  your  noble  tears — 

But  just  consider  this,  that  I 
Have  followed  you  for  years. 


And  tho'  you  are  above  me  far, 
What  matters  high  degree, 

When  you  are  only  four  foot  nine. 
And  I  am  six  foot  three  ? 


XIV. 


For  tho'  you  are  of  lofty  race, 

And  I'm  a  low-born  elf ; 
Yet  none  among  your  friends  could  SAJ^ 

You  match'd  beneath  yourself. 


XV. 


Said  she,  Such  insolence  as  this 
Can  be  no  common  case  ; 

Tho'  you  are  in  my  service,  sir, 
Your  love  is  out  of  place. 


XVI. 


O  Lady  Wye  !  O  Lady  Wye  1 

Consider  what  you  do  ; 
How  can  you  be  so  short  with  me, 

I  am  not  so  with  you  1 


XVII. 


Then  ringing  for  her  serving-men. 
They  show'd  him  to  the  door  : 

Said  they,  You  turn  out  better  now, 
Why  didn't  you  before  ? 


XVIII. 


They  stripp'd  his  coat,  and  gave  him  kick* 

For  all  his  wages  due  ; 
And  off,  instead  of  green  and  gold, 

He  went  in  black  and  blue. 


XIX. 


No  family  would  take  him  in. 
Because  of  this  discharge  ; 

So  he  made  up  his  mind  to  serve 
The  country  all  at  large. 


27S 


AN  A&^ENTEE. 


XX. 


Huzza  !  the  serjeant  cried,  and  put 

The  money  in  his  hand, 
And  with  a  shilling  cut  him  off 

From  his  paternal  land. 


XXI. 


For  when  his  regiment  went  to  fight 

At  Saragossa  town, 
A  Frenchman  thought  he  look'd  too  tall 

And  so  he  cut  him  down  1 


High-born  and  Low-born. 


AN  ABSENTEE. 

IF  ever  a  man  wanted  a  flapper — no  butcher's  mimosa,  or  catch-fly, 
but  one  of  those  officers  in  use  at  the  court  of  Laputa — my  friend 

W should  have  such  a  remembrancer  at  his  elbow.     I  question 

whether  even  the  appliance  of  a  bladder  full  of  peas  or  pebbles  would 
arouse  him  from  some  of  his  abstractions  ;  fits  of  mental  insensibility, 
parallel  with  those  bodily  trances  in  which  persons  have  sometimes 
been  coffined.  Not  that  he  is  entangled  in  abstruse  problems,  like  the 
nobility  of  the  Flying  Island  !  He  does  not  dive,  like  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 
into  a  reverie,  and  turn  up  again  with  a  Theory  of  Gravitation.  His 
thoughts  are  not  deeply  engaged  elsewhere — they  are  nowhere.  His 
head  revolves  itself,  top-like,  into  a  profound  slumber— a  blank  doze 


AN  ABSENTEE. 


Vll 


without  a  dream.  He  is  not  carried  away  by  incoherent  rambling 
fancies  out  of  himself, — he  is  not  drunk,  merely,  with  the  Waters  of 
ObUvion,  but  drowned  in  them,  body  and  soul  ! 

There  is  a  story,  somewhere,  of  one  of  these  absent  persons,  who. 
stooped  down,  when  tickled  about  the  calf  by  a  bluebottle,  and 
scratched  his  neighbour's  leg  :  an  act  of  tolerable  forgetfulness,  but 

denoting  a  state  far  short  of  W 's  absorptions.     He  would  never 

have  felt  the  fly. 

To  make  W 's  condition  more  whimsical,  he  lives  in  a  small 

bachelor's  house,  with  no  other  attendant  than  an  old  housekeeper — 
one  Mistress  Bundy,  of  faculty  as  infirm  and  intermitting  as  his  own. 
It  will  be  readily  believed  that  her  absent  fits  do  not  originate,  any 
more  than  her  master's,  in   abstruse  mathematical   speculations — a 


"Lawk  I  I've  forgot  the  Brandy  1'* 


proof  with  me  that  such  moods  result,  not  from  abstractions  of  mind, 
but  stagnation.  How  so  ill-sorted  a  couple  contrive  to  get  through 
the  commonplace  affairs  of  life,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say :  but  it  is 
comical  indeed  to  see  him  ring  up  Mistress  Bundy  to  receive  orders, 
which  he  generally  forgets  to  deliver, — or,  if  delivered,  this  old 
Bewildered  Maid  lets  slip  out  of  her  remembrance  with  the  same 
facility.  Numberless  occurrences  of  this  kind — in  many  instances 
more  extravagant — are  recorded  by  his  friends  ;  but  an  evening  that 
I  spent  with  him  recently  will  furnish  an  abundance  of  examples. 

In  spite  of  going  by  his  own  invitation,  I  found  W within.     He 

was  too  apt,  on  such  occasions,  to  be  denied  to  his  visitors  ;  but  what 
in  others  would  be  an  unpardonable  affront,  was  overlooked  in  a  man 
who  was  not  always  at  home  to  himself.  The  door  was  opened  by  the 
housekeeper,  whose  absence,  as  usual,  would  not  allow  her  to  decide 


274  ^N  ABSENTEE. 

upon  that  of  her  master.     Her  shrill  quavering  voice  went  echohig 

up-stairs  with  its  old  query,  "  Mr  W !  are  \ou  within?"— then  a 

pause,  literally  for  him  to  collect  himself.  Anon  came  his  answer,  and 
I  was  ushered  up-stairs,  Mrs  Bundy  contriving,  as  usual,  to  forget  my 
name  at  the  first  landing-place.     I  had  therefore  to  introduce  myself 

formally  to  W ,  whose  old  friends  came  to  him  always  as  if  with 

new  faces.  As  for  what  followed,  it  was  one  of  the  old  fitful  colloquies 
— a  game  at  conversation,  sometimes  with  a  partner,  sometimes  with 
a  dummy ;  the  old  woman's  memory  in  the  meantime  growing  torpid 
on  a  kitchen-chair.  Hour  after  hour  passed  away :  no  tea-spoon  jingled 
or  tea-cup  rattled  ;  no  murmuring  kettle  or  hissing  urn  found  its  way 
upward  from  one  Haunt  of  Forgetfulness  to  the  other.  In  short,  as 
might  have  been  expected  with  an  Absentee,  the  tea  was  absent. 

It  happens  that  the  meal  in  question  is  not  one  of  my  essentials  ;  I 
therefore  never  hinted  at  the  In  Tea  Speravi  of  my  visit  ;  bui  at  the 
turn  of  eleven  o'clock,  my  host  rang  for  the  apparatus.  The  Chinese 
ware  was  brought  up,  but  the  herb  was  deficient.  Mrs  Bundy  went 
forth,  by  command,  for  a  supply  ;  but  it  was  past  grocer-time,  and  we 
arranged  to  make  amends  by  an  early  supper,  which  came,  however, 
as  proportionably  late  as  the  tea.  By  dint  of  those  freedoms  which 
you  must  use  vvith  an  entertainer  who  is  absent  at  his  own  table,  I 

contrived  to  sup  sparely ;  and  W 's  memory,  blossoming  like  certain 

flowers  to  the  night,  reminded  him  that  I  was  accustftmed  to  go  to  bed 
on  a  tumbler  of  Geneva  and  water.  He  kept  but  one  bottle  of  each  of 
the  three  kinds.  Rum,  Brandy,  and  Hollands,  in  the  house  ;  and  when 
exhausted,  they  were  replenished  at  the  tavern  a  few  doors  off.  Luckily, 
for  it  was  far  beyond  the  midnight  hour,  when,  according  to  our  vapid 
magistracy,  all  spirits  are  evil,  the  three  vessels  were  full,  and  merely 
wanted  bringing  up-stairs.  The  kettle  was  singing  on  the  hob  ;  the 
tumblers,  with  spoons  in  them,  stood  miraculously  ready  on  the  board  ; 
and  Mrs  Bundy  was  really  on  her  way  from  below  with  the  one  thing 
needful.  Never  were  fair  hopes  so  unfairly  blighted !  I  could  hear 
her  step  labouring  on  the  stairs  to  the  very  last  step,  when  her  memory 
serving  her  just  as  treacherously  as  her  forgetfulness,  or  rather  both 
betraying  her  together,  there  befell  the  accident  which  I  have  endea- 
voured to  record  by  the  sketch  over-leaf. 

I  never  ate  or  drank  with  the  Barmecide  again  I 


275 


Unconscious  Imitation. 


ODE  TO  THE  CAMELEOFARD. 


Welcome  to  Freedom's  birthplace — and  a  den ! 

Great  Anti-climax,  hail  ! 
So  very  lofty  in  thy  front — but  then, 

So  dwindling  at  the  tail  ! — 
In  truth,  thou  hast  the  most  unequal  legs  ! 
Has  one  pair  gallop'd  whilst  the  other  trotted, 
Along  with  other  brethren,  leopard-spotted, 
O'er  Afric  sand,  where  ostriches  lay  eggs  ? 
Sure  thou  wert  caught  in  some  hard  uphill  chase, 
Those  hinder  heels  still  keeping  thee  in  check  ! 

And  yet  thou  seem'st  prepared  in  any  case, 

Tho'  they  had  lost  the  race, 
To  win  it — by  a  neck  ! 

That  lengthy  neck — how  like  a  crane's  it  looks  I 
Art  thou  the  overseer  of  all  the  brutes  ? 
Or  dost  thou  browse  on  tiptop  leaves  or  fruits — 
Or  go  a  bird-nesting  amongst  the  rooks  ? 
How  kindly  nature  caters  for  all  wants  ; 
Thus  giving  unto  thee  a  neck  that  stretches, 

And  high  food  fetches — 
To  some  a  long  nose,  like  the  elephant's  ! 


276  ODE  TO  THE  CAMELEOPARD, 

Oh  !  hadst  thou  any  organ  to  thy  bellows, 
To  turn  thy  breath  to  speech  in  human  style, 

What  secrets  thou  might'st  tell  us, 
Where  now  our  scientific  "uesses  fail  ; 

For  instance  of  the  Nile, 
Whether  those  Seven  Mouths  have  any  tail  ; 

Mayhap  thy  luck  ton, 
From  that  high  head,  as  from  a  lofty  hill, 
Has  let  thee  see  the  marvellous  Timbuctoo — 
Or  drink  of  Niger  at  its  infant  rill. 
What  were  the  travels  of  our  Major  Denham, 

Or  Clapperton,  to  thine 

In  that  same  line. 
If  thou  couldst  only  squat  thee  down  and  pen  'em ! 


African  Wreckers. 


Strange  sights,  indeed,  thou  must  have  overlool^di 
With  eyes  held  ever  in  such  vantage  stations  ! 
Hast  seen,  perchance,  unhappy  white  folks  cook'd, 
And  then  made  free  of  negro  corporations  ? 
Poor  wretches  saved  from  castaway  three-deckers— 

By  sooty  wreckers — 
From  hungry  waves  to  have  a  loss  still  drearier, 
To  far  exceed  the  utmost  aim  of  Park — 
And  find  themselves,  alas  !  beyond  the  mark, 
In  the  insides  of  Ainca's  interior  ! 


ODE  TO  THE  CaMELEOPARD. 

Live  on,  Giraffe  !  genteelest  of  raff  kind  ! — 
Admired  by  noble,  and  by  royal  tongues  ! 

May  no  pernicious  wind, 
Or  English  fog,  blight  thy  exotic  lungs  ! 
Live  on  in  happy  peace,  altho'  a  rarity, 
Nor  envy  thy  poor  cousin's  more  outrageous 

Parisian  popularity, 
Whose  very  leopard-rash  is  grown  contagious, 
And  worn  on  gloves  and  ribbons  all  about — 

Alas  !  they'll  wear  him  out  ! 
So  thou  shalt  take  thy  sweet  diurnal  feeds 
When  he  is  stuff'd  with  undigested  straw, 
Sad  food  that  never  visited  his  jaw  ! 
And  staring  round  him  with  a  brace  of  beads ! 


277 


White  Bait. 


THE    PLEA 

OF 

THE    MIDSUMMER    FAIRIES. 

[Originally  Published  in  1827.] 

TO    CHARLES   LAMB,    ESQ. 

MY  Dear  Friend, — I  thank  my  literary  fortune  that  I  am  not  re- 
duced, like  many  better  wits,  to  baiter  dedications,  for  the  hope 
or  promise  of  patronage,  with  some  nominally  great  man  ;  but  that 
where  true  affection  points,  and  honest  respect,  I  am  free  to  gratify 
my  head  and  heart  by  a  sincere  inscription.  An  intimacy  and  dear- 
ness,  worthy  of  a  much  earlier  date  than  our  acquaintance  can  refer 
to,  direct  me  at  once  to  your  name  ;  and  with  this  acknowledgment  of 
your  ever  kind  feeling  towards  me,  I  desire  to  record  a  respect  and 
admiration  for  you  as  a  writer,  which  no  one  acquainted  with  our  lite- 
rature, save  Elia  himself,  will  think  disproportionate  or  misplaced.  If 
I  had  not  these  better  reasons  to  govern  me,  I  should  be  guided  to  the 
same  selection  by  your  intense  yet  critical  relish  for  the  works  of  our 
great  Dramatist,  and  for  that  favourite  play  in  particular  which  has  fur- 
nished the  subject  of  my  verses. 

It  is  my  design,  in  the  following  Poem,  to  celebrate,  by  an  allegory, 
that  immortality  which  Shakespeare  has  conferred  on  the  Fairy 
mythology  by  his  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  But  for  him,  those 
pretty  children  of  our  childhood  would  leave  barely  their  names  to  our 
maturer  years  ;  they  belong,  as  the  mites  upon  the  plum,  to  the  bloom 
of  fancy,  a  thing  generally  too  frail  and  beautiful  to  withstand  the  rude 
handling  of  time  :  but  the  Poet  has  made  this  most  perishable  part  of 
the  mind's  creation  equal  to  the  most  enduring  ;  he  has  so  intertwined 
the  Elfins  with  human  sympathies,  and  linked  them  by  so  many  delight- 
ful associations  with  the  productions  of  nature,  that  they  are  as  real  to 
the  mind's  eye,  as  their  green  magical  circles  to  the  outer  sense. 

It  would  have  been  a  pity  for  such  a  race  to  go  extinct,  even  though 
they  were  but  as  the  butterflies  that  hover  about  the  leaves  and  blossoms 
of  the  visible  world. — I  am,  my  dear  Friend,  yours  most  truly, 

T.  Hood. 


279 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES. 


TwAS  in  that  mellow  season  of  the  year 

When  th&  hot  Sun  singes  the  yellow  leaves 

Till  they  be  gold, — and  with  a  broader  sphere 

The  Moon  looks  down  on  Ceres  and  her  sheaves  ; 

When  more  abundantly  the  spider  weaves, 

And  the  cold  wind  breathes  from  a  chillier  clime  ; 

That  forth  I  fared,  on  one  of  those  still  evej, 

Touch'd  with  the  dewy  sadness  of  the  time, 

To  think  how  the  bright  months  had  spent  their  prime  : 

II. 

So  that,  wherever  I  address'd  my  way, 

I  seem'd  to  track  the  melancholy  feet 

Of  hmi  that  is  the  Father  of  Decay, 

And  sjjoils  at  once  the  sour  weed  and  the  sweet  }-• 

Wherefore  regretfully  I  made  retreat 

To  some  unwasted  regions  of  my  brain, 

Charm'd  with  the  light  of  summer  and  the  heat, 

And  bade  that  bounteous  season  bloom  again, 

And  sprout  fresh  flowers  in  mine  own  domaio* 

III. 

It  was  a  shady  and  sequestered  scene, 
Like  those  famed  gardens  of  Boccaccio, 
Planted  with  his  own  laurels  evergreen. 
And  roses  that  for  endless  summer  blow  ; 
And  there  were  founting  springs  to  overflow 
Their  marble  basins, — and  cool  green  arcades 
Of  tall  o'erarching  sycamores,  to  throw 
Athwart  the  dappled  path  their  dancing  shades,— 
With  timid  coneys  cropping  the  green  blades. 

IV. 

And  there  were  crystal  pools,  peopled  with  fish. 

Argent  and  gold  ;  and  some  of  Tyrian  skin. 
Some  crimson-barr'd  ; — and  ever  at  a  wish 
They  rose  obsequious  till  the  wave  grew  thin 
As  glass  upon  their  backs,  and  then  dived  in, 
Quenching  their  ardent  scales  in  watery  gloom  ; 
Whilst  otiiers  with  fresh  hues  row'd  forth  to  win 
My  changeable  regard, — for  so  we  docm 
Things  born  of  thought  to  vanish  or  to  bloom. 


l8o  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 


And  there  were  many  birds  of  many  dyes, 
From  tree  to  tree  still  faring  to  and  fro, 
And  stately  peacocks  with  their  splendid  eyes, 
And  gorgeous  pheasants  with  their  golden  glow. 
Like  Iris  just  bedabbled  in  her  bow, 
Besides  some  vocalists,  without  a  name. 
That  oft  on  fairy  errands  come  and  go, 
"With  accents  magical  ; — and  all  were  tame, 
And  peckled  at  my  hand  where'er  I  came. 

VI. 

And  for  my  sylvan  company,  in  lieu 
Of  Pampinea  with  her  lively  peers, 
Sate  Queen  Titania  with  her  pretty  crew, 
All  in  their  liveries  quaint,  with  elfin  gears, 
For  she  was  gracious  to  my  childish  ye^s, 
And  made  me  free  of  her  enchanted  round  ; 
Wherefore  this  dreamy  scene  she  still  endears, 
And  plants  her  court  upon  a  verdant  mound, 
Fenced  with  umbrageous  woods  and  groves  profound 

VII. 

"  Ah  me  ! "  she  cries,  "  was  ever  moonlight  seen 
So  clear  and  tender  for  our  midnight  trips  ? 
Go  some  one  forth,  and  with  a  trump  convene 
My  lieges  all  !  " — Away  the  goblin  skips 
A  pace  or  two  apart,  and  deftly  strips 
The  ruddy  skin  from  a  sweet  rose's  cheek, 
Then  blows  the  shuddering  leaf  between  his  lips, 
Making  it  utter  forth  a  shrill  small  shriek, 
Like  a  fray'd  bird  in  the  grey  owlet's  beak. 

VIII. 

And  lo  !  upon  my  fix'd  delighted  ken 
Appeared  the  loyal  Fays. — Some  by  degrees 
Crept  from  the  primrose  buds  that  open'd  then, 
And  some  from  bell-shaped  blossoms  like  the  bees, 
Some  from  the  dewy  meads  and  rushy  leas 
Flew  up  like  chafers  when  the  rustics  pass  ; 
Some  from  the  rivers,  others  from  tall  trees 
Dropp'd,  like  shed  blossoms,  silent  to  the  grass, 
Spirits  and  elfins  small,  of  every  class. 

IX. 

Peri  and  Pixy,  and  quaint  Puck  the  Antic, 
Brought  Robin  Goodfellow,  that  merry  swain  ; 
And  stealthy  Mab,  queen  of  old  realms  romantic, 
Came  too.  from  distance,  in  her  tiny  wain. 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  281 

Fresh  dripping  from  a  cloud — some  bloomy  rain, 
Then  circling  the  bright  Moon,  had  wash'd  her  car, 
And  still  bedev/d  it  with  a  Vcnrious  stain  : 
Lastly  came  Ariel,  shooting  from  a  star, 
Who  bears  all  fairy  embassies  afar. 

X. 

But  Oberon,  that  night  elsewhere  exiled, 

Was  absent,  whether  some  distemper'd  spleen 

Kept  him  and  his  fair  mate  unreconciled, 

Or  warfare  with  the  Gnome  (whose  race  had  been 

Sometimes  obnoxious),  kept  him  from  his  queen. 

And  made  her  now  peruse  the  starry  skies 

Prophetical  with  such  an  absent  mien  ; 

Howbeit,  the  tears  stole  often  to  her  eyes. 

And  oft  the  Moon  was  incensed  with  her  sigh«— 

XI. 

Which  made  the  elves  sport  drearily,  and  soon 
Their  hushing  dances  lanyuish'd  to  a  stand. 
Like  midnight  leaves,  when,  as  the  Zephyrs  swoon. 
All  on  their  drooping  stems  they  sink  unfann'd, — 
So  into  silence  droop'd  the  fairy  band, 
To  see  their  empress  dear  so  pale  and  still. 
Crowding  her  softly  round  on  either  hand, 
As  pale  as  frosty  snowdrops,  and  as  chill. 
To  whom  the  sceptred  dame  reveals  her  ilL 

XII. 

"  Alas  ! "  quoth  she,  "  ye  know  our  fairy  lives 
Are  leased  upon  the  fickle  faith  of  men  ; 
Not  measured  out  against  fate's  mortal  knive% 
Like  human  gossamers,  we  perish  when 
We  fade,  and  are  forgot  in  worldly  ken, — 
Though  poesy  has  thus  prolong'd  our  date. 
Thanks  be  to  the  sweet  Bard's  auspicious  pen 
That  rescued  us  so  long  ! — howbeit  of  late 
I  feel  some  dark  misgivings  of  our  fate. 

XIII. 

*  And  this  dull  day  my  melancholy  sleep 
Hath  been  so  throng'd  with  images  of  woe, 
That  even  now  I  cannot  choose  but  weep 
To  think  this  was  some  sad  prophetic  shotr 
Of  future  horror  to  befall  us  so, — 
Of  mortal  wreck  and  uttermost  distress, — 
Yea,  our  poor  empire's  fall  and  overthrow  ;— 
For  this  was  my  long  vision's  dreadful  stress, 
And  when  I  waked  my  trouble  was  not  less. 


88a  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 


XIV. 


"  Whenever  to  the  clouds  I  tried  to  seek, 
Such  leaden  weight  dragg'd  these  Icarian  wings. 
My  faithless  wand  was  wavering  and  weak, 
And  slimy  toads  had  trespass'd  in  our  rings — 
The  birds  refused  to  sing  for  me — all  things 
Disown'd  their  old  allegiance  to  our  spells  ; 
The  rude  bees  prick'd  me  with  their  rebel  stings  ; 
And,  when  I  pass'd,  the  valley-lily's  bells 
Rang  out,  methought,  most  melancholy  knells. 

XV. 

"And  ever  on  the  faint  and  flagging  air 

A  doleful  spirit  with  a  dreary  note 

Cried  in  my  fearful  ear,  '  Prepare  !  prepare  !' 

Which  soon  I  knew  came  from  a  raven's  throat, 

Perch'd  on  a  cypress  bough  not  far  remote, — 

A  cursed  bird,  too  crafty  to  be  shot, 

That  alway  cometh  with  his  soot-black  coat 

To  make  hearts  dreary  : — for  he  is  a  blot 

Upon  the  book  of  life,  as  well  ye  wot  ! — 

XVI. 

*'  Wherefore,  some  while  I  bribed  him  to  be  mute, 

With  bitter  acorns  stuffing  his  foul  maw, 

Which  barely  I  appeased,  when  some  fresh  bruit 

Startled  me  all  aheap  ! — and  soon  I  saw 

The  horridest  shape  that  ever  raised  my  awe, — 

A  monstrous  giant,  very  hu::^e  and  tall, 

Such  as  in  elder  times,  devoid  of  law, 

With  wicked  might  grieved  the  primeval  ball. 

And  this  was  sure  the  deadliest  of  them  all  I 

XVIT. 

"  Gaunt  was  he  as  a  wolf  of  Languedoc, 
With  bloody  jaws,  and  frost  upon  his  crown  ; 
So  from  his  barren  poll  one  hoary  lock 
Over  his  wrinkled  front  fell  far  adown. 
Well-nigh  to  where  his  frosty  brows  did  frown 
Like  jagged  icicles  at  cottage  eaves  ; 
And  for  his  coronal  he  wore  some  brown 
And  bristled  ears  gather'd  from  Ceres'  sheaves, 
Entwined  with  certain  sere  and  russet  leaves. 

XVIII. 

"  And  lo  !  upon  a  mast  rcar'd  far  aloft, 
He  bore  a  very  bright  and  crescent  blade, 
The  which  he  waved  so  dreadfully,  and  oft, 
In  meditative  spite,  that,  sore  dismay'd, 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES,  agj 

I  crept  into  an  acorn-cup  for  shade  ; 
Meanwhile  the  horrid  effigy  went  by  : 
I  trow  his  look  was  dreadful,  for  it  made 
The  trembhng  birds  betake  them  to  the  sky, 
For  every  leaf  was  lifted  by  his  sigh. 

XIX. 

**  And  ever  as  he  sigh'd,  his  fogj^y  breath 
Blurr'd  out  the  landscape  like  a  flight  of  smoke  : 
Thence  knew  I  this  was  either  dreary  Death 
Or  Time,  who  leads  all  creatures  to  his  stroke. 
Ah  wretched  me  ! " — Here,  even  as  she  spoke. 
The  melancholy  Shape  came  gliding  in, 
And  lean'd  his  back  against  an  antique  oak, 
Folding  his  wings,  that  were  so  fine  and  thin, 
They  scarce  were  seen  against  the  Dryad's  skin. 

XX. 

Then  what  a  fear  seized  all  the  little  rout  f 
Look  how  a  flock  of  panick'd  sheep  will  stare-^ 
And  huddle  close — and  start — and  wheel  about, 
Watching  the  roaming  mongrel  here  and  there,— 
So  did  that  sudden  Apparition  scare 
All  close  aheap  those  small  affrighted  things  ; 
Nor  sought  they  now  the  safety  of  the  air, 
As  if  some  leaden  spell  withheld  their  wings ; 
But  who  can  fiy  that  ancientest  of  Kings  ? 

XXI. 

Whom  now  the  Queen,  with  a  forestalling  tear 
And  previous  sigh,  beginneth  to  entreat, 
Bidding  him  spare,  for  love,  her  lieges  dear  : 
*'  Alas  !  "  quoth  she,  "  is  there  no  nodding  wheat 
Ripe  for  thy  crooked  weapon,  and  more  meet, — 
Or  wither'd  leaves  to  ravish  from  the  tree, — 
Or  crumbling  battlements  for  thy  defeat  ? 
Think  but  what  vaunting  monuments  there  be 
Builded.  in  spite  and  mockery  of  thee. 

XXII. 

"  Oh,  fret  away  the  fabric  walls  of  Fame, 
And  grind  down  marble  Csesars  in  the  dust  : 
Make  tombs  inscriptionless — raze  each  high  nanie^ 
And  waste  old  armours  of  renown  with  rust :     , 
Do  all  of  this,  and  thy  revenge  is  just  : 
Make  such  decays  the  trophies  of  thy  prime. 
And  check  Ambition's  overweening  lust, 
That  dares  exterminating  war  with  Time- 
But  we  are  guiltless  of  that  lofty  crime. 


a84  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 

XXIII. 

"  Frail  feeble  sprites  ! — the  children  of  a  dream  I 

Leased  on  the  sufferance  of  fickle  men, 

Like  motes  dependent  on  the  sunny  beam, 

Living  but  in  the  sun's  indulgent  ken, 

And  when  that  light  withdraws,  withdrawing  then  j-^ 

So  do  we  flutter  in  the  glance  of  youth 

And  fervid  fancy, — and  so  perish  when 

The  eye  of  faith  grows  aged  ; — in  sad  truth, 

Feeling  thy  sway,  O  Time  !  though  not  thy  tooth  I 

XXIV. 

**  Where  be  those  old  divinities  forlorn, 
That  dwelt  in  trees,  or  haunted  in  a  stream  ? 
Alas  !  their  memories  are  dimm'd  and  torn, 
Like  the  remainder  tatters  of  a  dream  : 
So  will  it  fare  with  our  poor  thrones,  I  deem  ;— 
For  us  the  same  dark  trench  Oblivion  delves, 
That  holds  the  wastes  of  every  human  scheme. 
Oh,  spare  us  then, — and  these  our  pretty  elves, 
We  soon,  alas  !  shall  perish  of  ourselves  1 " 

XXV. 

Now  as  she  ended,  with  a  sigh,  to  name 
Those  old  Olympians,  scatter'd  by  the  whirl 
Of  Fortune's  giddy  wheel  and  brought  to  shamc^ 
Methought  a  scornful  and  malignant  curl 
Show'd  on  the  lips  of  that  malicious  churl, 
To  think  what  noble  havocks  he  had  made; 
So  that  I  fear'd  he  all  at  once  would  hurl 
The  harmless  fairies  into  endless  shade, — 
Howbeithe  stopp'd  awhile  to  whet  his  blade. 

XXVI. 

Pity  it  was  to  hear  the  elfins'  wail 
Rise  up  in  concert  from  their  mingled  dread: 
Piiy  it  was  to  see  them,  all  so  pale. 
Gaze  on  the  grass  as  for  a  dying  bed  ; — 
But  Puck  was  seated  on  a  spider's  thread, 
That  hung  between  two  branches  of  a  briar, 
And  'gan  to  swing  and  gambol  heels  o'er  head, 
Like  any  Southuark  tumbler  on  a  wire, 
For  him  no  present  grief  could  long  inspire. 

XXVII. 

Meanwhile  the  Queen,  with  many  piteous  drops, 
Falling  like  tiny  sparks  full  fast  and  free, 
Bedews  a  pathway  from  her  throne  ; — and  stops 
Before  the  foot  of  her  arch  enemy, 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  i 

And  with  her  little  arms  enfolds  his  knee, 
That  shows  more  gristly  from  that  fair  embrace  ; 
But  she  will  ne'er  depart.     "  Alas  ! "  quoth  she, 
"  My  painful  fingers  I  will  here  enlace 
Till  I  have  gain  d  your  pity  for  our  race. 

XXVIII. 

"What  have  we  ever  done  to  earn  this  grudge, 
And  hate— (if  not  too  humble  for  thy  h  ;ting  ?)— 
Look  o'er  our  labours  and  our  lives,  and  judge 
If  there  be  any  ills  of  our  creating  ; 
For  we  are  very  kindly  creatures,  dating 
"With  nature's  charities  still  sweet  and  bland  : — 
Oh,  think  this  murder  worthy  of  debating  !" 
Herewith  she  makes  a  signal  with  her  hand. 
To  beckon  some  one  from  the  Fairy  band. 

XXIX. 

Anon  I  saw  one  of  those  elfin  things, 

Clad  all  in  white  like  any  chorister, 

Come  fluttering  forth  on  his  melodious  wings, 

That  made  soft  music  at  each  little  stir, 

But  something  louder  than  a  bee's  demur, 

Before  he  lights  upon  a  bunch  of  broom, 

And  thus  'gan  he  with  Saturn  to  confer, — 

And  oh  !  his  voice  was  sweet,  touch'd  with  the  gloom. 

Of  that  sad  theme  that  argued  of  his  doom  I 

XXX. 

Quoth  he,  "  We  make  all  melodies  our  care, 
That  no  false  discords  may  offend  the  Sun, 
Music's  great  master— tuning  everywhere 
All  pastoral  sounds  and  melodies,  each  one 
Duly  to  place  and  season,  so  that  none 
May  harshly  interfere.     We  rouse  at  mom 
The  shrill  sweet  lark  ;  and  when  the  day  is  done. 
Hush  silent  pauses  for  the  bird  forlorn, 
That  singeth  with  her  breast  against  a  thorn. 

XXXI. 

•We  gather  in  loud  choirs  the  twittering  race. 
That  make  a  chorus  with  their  single  note  ; 
And  tend  on  new-fledged  birds  in  every  place. 
That  duly  they  may  get  their  tunes  by  rote  ; 
And  oft,  like  echoes,  answering  remote. 
We  hide  in  thickets  from  the  feather'd  throng, 
And  strain  in  rivilship  each  throbbing  throat, 
Sinewing  in  shrill  responses  all  day  long. 
Whilst  the  glad  truant  listens  to  our  song. 


flW  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 


XXXII. 


ft 


"  Wherefore,  great  King  of  Years,  as  thou  dost  love 

The  raining  music  from  a  morning  cloud, 
When  vanish'd  larks  are  carolling  above, 
To  wake  Apollo  w  ith  their  pipings  loud  : — 
If  ever  thou  hast  heard  in  leafy  shroud 
The  sweet  and  plaintive  Sappho  of  the  dell. 
Show  thy  sweet  mercy  on  this  little  crowd, 
And  we  will  muffle  up  the  sheepfold  bell 
Whene'er  thou  listenest  to  PhilomeL" 

XXXIII. 

Then  Saturn  thus  : — "  Sweet  is  the  merry  larfc^ 
That  carols  in  man's  ear  so  clear  and  strong ; 
And  youth  must  love  to  listen  in  the  dark 
That  tuneful  elegy  of  Tereus'  wrong  ; 
But  I  have  heard  that  ancient  strain  too  long, 
For  sweet  is  sweet  but  when  a  little  strange, 
And  I  grow  weary  for  some  newer  song  ; 
For  wherefore  had  I  wings,  unless  to  range 
Through  all  things  mutable  from  change  to  change  ? 

XXXIV, 

"  But  wouldst  thou  hear  the  melodies  of  Time, 
Listen  when  sleep  and  drowsy  darkness  roll 
Over  hush'd  cities,  and  the  midnight  chime 
Sounds  from  their  hundred  clocks,  and  deep  bells  tcQ 
Like  a  last  knell  over  the  dead  world's  soul, 
Saying,  Time  shall  be  tinal  of  all  things, 
whose  late,  last  voice  must  elegise  the  whole, — 
Oh,  then  I  clap  aloft  my  brave  broad  wings. 
And  make  the  wide  air  tremble  while  it  rings  1" 

XXXV. 

Then  next  a  fair  Eve-Fay  made  meek  address, 
Saying,  "  We  be  the  handmaids  of  the  Spring, 
In  sign  whereof,  May,  the  quaint  broideress. 
Hath  wrought  her  samplers  on  our  gauzy  wing. 
We  tend  ujjon  buds'  birth  and  blossoming, 
And  count  the  leafy  tributes  that  they  owe — 
As  so  much  to  the  earth — so  much  to  fling 
In  showers  to  tlie  brook — so  much  to  go 
In  whirlwinds  to  the  clouds  that  made  them  grow. 

XXXVI. 

"  The  pastoral  cowslips  are  our  little  pets, 
And  daisy  stars,  whose  firmament  is  green  ; 
Pansies,  and  those  veil'd  nu/is,  meek  violets, 
Sighing  to  that  warm  world  from  which  they  screen  ; 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  aS? 

And  golden  daffodils,  pluck'd  for  May's  Queen ; 
And  lonely  harebells,  quaking  on  the  heath  ; 
And  Hyacinth,  long  since  a  fair  youth  seen, 
Whose  tuneful  voice,  turn'd  fragrance  in  his  breathf 
Kiss'd  by  sad  Zephyr,  guilty  of  his  death. 

XXXVII. 

"The  widow'd  primrose  weeping  to  the  moon, 
And  saffron  crocus  in  whose  chalice  bright 
A  cool  hbation  hoarded  for  the  noon 
Is  kept — and  she  that  purifies  the  light, 
The  virgin  lily,  faithful  to  her  white, 
Whereon  Eve  wept  in  Eden  for  her  shame ; 
And  the  most  dainty  rose,  Aurora's  sprite. 
Our  every  godchild,  by  whatever  name — 
Spare  us  our  lives,  for  we  did  nurse  the  same!" 

XXXVIII. 

Then  that  old  Mower  stamp'd  his  heel,  and  struck 
His  hurtful  scythe  against  the  harmless  ground, 
Saying,  "Ye  foolish  imps,  when  am  I  stuck 
With  gaudy  buds,  or  like  a  wooer  crown'd 
With  flowery  chaplets,  save  when  they  are  found 
Wither'd  ?— Whenever  have  I  pluck'd  a  rose, 
Except  to  scatter  its  vain  leaves  around  ? 
For  so  all  gloss  of  beauty  I  oppose, 
And  bring  decay  on  every  flower  that  blows. 

XXXIX. 

'*  Or  when  am  I  so  wroth  as  when  I  view 

The  wanton  pride  of  Summer ;— how  she  decks 

The  birthday  world  with  blossoms  ever  new, 

As  if  Time  had  not  lived,  and  heap'd  great  wrecks 

Of  years  on  years? — Oh,  then  I  bravely  vex 

And  catch  the  gay  Months  in  their  gaudy  plight, 

And  slay  them  with  the  wreaths  about  their  necks, 

Like  foohsh  heifers  in  the  holy  rite, 

And  raise  gieat  trophies  to  my  ancient  might.* 

XL. 

Then  saith  another,  "  We  are  kindly  things, 
And  like  her  offspring  nestle  with  the  dove, — 
Witness  these  hearts  embroider'd  on  our  wings, 
To  show  our  constant  patronage  of  love  : — 
We  sit,  at  even,  in  sweet  bowers  above 
Lovers,  and  shake  rich  odours  on  the  air, 
To  mingle  with  their  sighs  ;  and  still  remove 
The  startling  owl,  and  bid  the  bat  forbear 
Their  privacy,  and  haunt  some  other  where. 


8^  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 

XLI. 

"And  we  are  near  the  mother  when  she  sitt 

Beside  her  infant  in  its  wicker  bed  ; 
And  we  are  in  the  fairy  scene  that  flits 
Across  its  tender  brain  :  sweet  dreams  we  shed  J 
And  whilst  the  tender  Httle  soul  is  fled 
Away  to  sport  with  our  young  elves,  the  while 
We  touch  the  dimpled  cheek  with  roses  red, 
And  tickle  the  soft  lips  until  they  smile. 
So  that  their  careful  parents  they  beguile. 

XLII. 

"  Oh,  then,  if  ever  thou  hast  breathed  a  vcw 
At  Love's  dear  portal,  or  at  pale  mocnrise 
Crush'd  the  dear  curl  on  a  regardful  brow 
That  did  not  frown  thee  from  thy  honey  prize— 
If  ever  thy  sweet  son  sat  on  thy  thighs, 
And  woo'd  thee  from  thy  careful  thoughts  within 
To  watch  the  harmless  beauty  of  his  eyes, 
Or  glad  thy  fingers  on  his  smooth  soft  skin, 
For  Love's  dear  sake,  let  us  thy  pity  win  1* 

XLIII. 

Then  Saturn  fiercely  thus  : — "What  joy  have  I 
In  tender  babes,  that  have  devour'd  mine  own, 
Whenever  to  the  light  I  heard  them  cry, 
Till  foolish  Rhea  cheated  me  with  stone.? 
Whereon,  till  now,  is  my  great  hunger  shown, 
In  monstrous  dints  of  my  enormous  tooth  ; 
And, — but  the  peopled  world  is  too  full  grown 
For  hunger's  edge, — I  would  consume  all  youtk 
At  one  great  meal,  without  delay  or  ruth  ! 

XLIV. 

''For  I  am  well-nigh  crazed  and  wild  to  hear 
How  boastful  fathers  taunt  me  with  their  breed. 
Saying,  We  shall  not  die  nor  disappear. 
But  in  these  other  selves,  ourselves  succeed, 
Even  as  ripe  flowers  pass  into  their  seed 
Only  to  be  renew'd  from  prime  to  prime  ; 
AH  of  which  boastings  I  am  forced  to  read. 
Besides  a  thousand  challenges  to  Time 
Which  bragging  lovers  have  compiled  in  rhyme; 

XLV. 

"  Wherefore,  when  they  are  sweetly  met  o'  nighU^ 
There  will  I  steal,  and  with  my  hurried  hand 
Startle  them  suddenly  from  their  delights 
Before  the  next  encounter  hath  besn  plann'd, 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES. 

Ravishing  hours  in  little  minutes  spann'd  ; 
But  when  they  say  farewell,  and  grieve  apart, 
Then  like  a  leaden  statue  I  will  stand  : 
Meanwhile  their  many  tears  encrust  my  dart, 
And  with  a  ragged  edge  cut  heart  from  heart." 

XLVI. 

Then  next  a  merry  Woodsman,  clad  in  green, 
Stept  vanward  from  his  mates,  that  idly  stood 
Each  at  his  proper  ease,  as  they  had  been 
Nursed  in  the  liberty  of  old  Sherwood, 
And  wore  the  livery  of  Robin  Hood, 
Who  wont  in  forest  shades  to  dine  and  sup, — 
So  came  this  chief  right  frankly,  and  made  good 
His  haunch  against  his  axe,  and  thus  spoke  up, 
Doffing  his  cap,  which  was  an  acorn's  cup  : — 

XLVII. 

"  We  be  small  foresters  and  gay,  who  tend 
On  trees,  and  all  their  furniture  of  green, 
Training  the  young  boughs  airily  to  bend. 
And  show  blue  snatches  of  the  sky  between  ; — 
Or  knit  more  close  intricacies,  to  screen 
Birds'  crafty  dwellings  as  may  hide  them  best. 
But  most  the  timid  blackbird's— she,  that  seen. 
Will  bear  black  poisonous  berries  to  her  nest, 
Lest  man  should  cage  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 

XLVIII. 

"  We  bend  each  tree  in  proper  attitude, 
And  founting  willows  train  in  silvery  falls  ; 
We  frame  all  shady  roofs  and  arches  rude, 
And  verdant  aisles  leading  to  Dryads'  haUs, 
Or  deep  recesses  where  the  Echo  calls  ; — 
We  shape  all  plumy  trees  against  the  sky, 
And  carve  tall  elms'  Corinthian  capitals, — 
When  sometimes,  as  our  tiny  hatchets  ply, 
Men  say,  the  tapping  woodpecker  is  nigh. 

XLIX. 

**  Sometimes  we  scoop  the  squirrel's  hollow  cell. 

And  sometimes  carve  quaint  letters  on  trees'  rind, 

That  haply  some  lone  musing  wight  may  spell 

Dainty  Ammta, — gentle  Rosalind, — 

Or  chastest  Laura, — sweetly  call'd  to  mind 

In  sylvan  solitudes,  ere  he  lies  down  ; — 

And  sometimes  we  enrich  gray  stems  with  twined 

And  vagrant  ivy,  or  rich  moss,  whose  brown 

Burns  into  gold  as  the  warm  sun  goes  down. 


THE  PLEA  OF  THE 


*  And,  lastly,  for  mirth's  sake  and  Christmas  cheer, 
"We  bear  the  seedling  berries,  for  increase, 
To  graft  the  Druid  oaks,  from  year  to  year, 
Careful  that  mistletoe  may  never  cease  ; — 
Wherefore,  if  thou  dost  prize  the  shady  peace 
Of  sombre  forests,  or  to  see  light  break 
Through  sylvan  cloisters,  and  in  spring  release 
Thy  spirit  amongst  leaves  from  careful  ake, 
Spare  us  our  lives  for  the  Green  Dryad's  sake." 

LI. 

Then  Saturn,  with  a  frown  : — "  Go  forth,  and  fell 

Oak  for  your  coffins,  and  thenceforth  lay  by 

Your  axes  for  the  rust,  and  bid  farewell 

To  all  sweet  birds,  and  the  blue  peeps  of  sky 

Through  tangled  branches,  for  ye  shall  not  spy 

The  next  green  generation  of  the  tree  ; 

But  hence  with  the  dead  leaves,  whene'er  they  fly,— • 

Which  in  the  bleak  air  I  would  rather  see. 

Than  flights  of  the  most  tuneful  birds  that  be. 

LIl. 

**  For  I  dislike  all  prime,  and  verdant  pets, 

Ivy  except,  that  on  the  aged  wall 

Preys  with  its  worm-like  roots,  and  daily  frets 

The  crumbled  tower  it  seems  to  league  withal, 

King-like,  worn  down  by  its  own  coronal : — 

Neither  in  forest  haunts  love  1  to  won 

Before  the  golden  plumage  'gins  to  fall. 

And  leaves  the  brov\n,  bleak  limbs  with  few  leaves  Oi 

Or  bare — like  Nature  in  her  skeleton. 

LI  1 1. 

**  For  then  sit  I  amongst  the  crooked  boughs, 
Wooing  dull  Memory  with  kindred  sighs  ; 
And  there  in  rustling  nuptials  we  espouse, 
Smit  by  the  sadness  in  each  other's  eyes  ; — 
But  Hope  must  have  green  bowers  and  blue  skies. 
And  must  be  courted  \\  ith  the  gauds  of  spring  ; 
Whilst  Youth  leans  god-like  on  her  lap,  and  cries, 
What  shall  we  always  do,  but  love  and  sing? — 
And  Time  is  reckon'd  a  discarded  thing." 

LIV. 

Here  in  my  dream  it  made  me  fret  to  see 
How  Puck,  the  Antic,  all  this  dreary  while 
Had  blithely  jested  with  calamity. 
With  mistimed  mirth  mocking  the  doleful  style 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES,  mgg 

Of  his  sad  comrades,  till  it  raised  my  biie 
To  see  him  so  reflect  their  grief  aside, 
Turning  their  solemn  looks  to  half  a  smile — 
Like  a  straight  stick  shown  crooked  in  the  tide  J— 
But  soon  a  novel  advocate  I  spied. 

LV. 

Quoth  he — "  We  teach  all  natures  to  fulfil 
Their  fore-appointed  crafts,  and  instincts  meet,— 
The  bee's  sweet  alchemy, — the  spider's  skill,— 
The  pismire's  care  to  garner  up  his  wheat, — 
And  rustic  masonry  to  swallows  fleet, — 
The  lapwing's  cunning  to  preserve  her  nest,— 
But  most,  that  lesser  pelican,  the  sweet 
And  shrilly  ruddock,  with  its  bleeding  breast, 
Its  tender  pity  of  poor  babes  distrest. 

LVI. 

"Sometimes  we  cast  our  shapes,  and  in  sleek  skins 
Delve  with  the  timid  mole,  that  aptly  delves 
From  our  example  ;  so  the  spider  spins. 
And  eke  the  silkworm,  pattern'd  by  ourselves  : 
Sometimes  we  travail  on  the  summer  shelves 
Of  early  bees,  and  busy  toils  commence, 
Watch'd  of  wise  men,  that  know  not  we  are  elves. 
But  gaze  and  marvel  at  our  stretch  of  sense, 
And  praise  our  human-like' intelligence. 

LVII. 

"Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  that  old  tale, 
And  plaintive  dirges  the  late  robins  sing, 
What  time  the  leaves  are  scattered  by  the  galc^ 
Mindful  of  that  old  forest  burying  ; — 
As  thou  dost  love  to  watch  each  tiny  thing, 
For  whom  our  craft  most  curiously  contrives, 
If  thou  hast  caught  a  bee  upon  the  wing, 
To  take  his  honey-bag, — spare  us  our  lives, 
And  we  will  pay  the  ransom  in  full  hives." 

LVIII. 

"  Now  by  my  glass,''  quoth  Time,  "  ye  do  offend 
In  teaching  the  brown  bees  that  careful  lore, 
And  frugal  ants,  whose  millions  would  have  end. 
But  they  lay  up  for  need  a  timely  store, 
And  travail  with  the  seasons  evermore  ; 
Whereas  Great  Mammoth  long  hath  pass'd  away. 
And  none  but  I  can  tell  what  hide  he  wore  ; 
Whilst  purolind  men,  the  cre;!tures  of  a  day. 
In  riddUng  wonder  his  great  bones  survey." 


292 


THE  PLEA   OF  THE 


LIX. 


Then  came  an  elf,  right  beauteous  to  behold. 
Whose  coat  was  like  a  brooklet  that  the  sun 
Hath  all  embroider'd  with  its  crooked  gold, 
It  was  so  quaintly  wrought,  and  overrun 
With  spangled  traceries,— most  meet  for  one 
That  was  a  warden  of  the  pearly  streams  ;— 
And  as  he  stept  out  of  the  shadows  dun, 
His  jewels  sparkled  in  the  pale  moon's  gleams, 
And  shot  into  the  air  their  pointed  beams. 

LX. 

Quoth  he — "  We  bear  the  cold  and  silver  keys 
Of  bubbling  springs  and  fountains,  that  below 
Course  thro'  the  veiny  earth, — which,  when  they  freeze 
Into  hard  chrysolites,  we  bid  to  flow, 
Creeping  like  subtle  snakes,  when,  as  they  go, 
We  guide  their  windings  to  melodious  falls. 
At  whose  soft  murmurings,  so  sweet  and  low, 
Poets  have  tuned  their  smoothest  madrigals, 
To  sing  to  ladies  in  their  banquet  halls. 

LXI. 

**And  when  the  hot  sun  with  his  steadfast  heat 

Parches  the  river-god, — whose  dusty  urn 

Drips  miserly,  till  soon  his  crystal  feet 

Against  his  pebbly  floor  wax  faint  and  burn, 

And  languid  fish,  unpoised,  grow  sick  and  yearn, — 

Then  scoop  we  hollows  in  some  sandy  nook, 

And  little  channels  dig,  wherein  we  turn 

The  thread-worn  rivulet,  that  all  forsook. 

The  Naiad-lily,  pining  for  her  brook. 

LXIL 

"  Wherefore,  by  thy  delight  in  cool  green  meads, 

With  living  sapphires  damtily  inlaid, — 

In  all  soft  songs  of  waters  and  their  reeds,— 

And  all  refleciions  in  a  streamlet  made, 

Haply  of  thy  own  love,  that,  disarray'd, 

Kills  the  fair  lily  with  a  livelier  white, — 

By  silver  trouts  upspringing  from  green  shade, 

And  winking  stars  reduplicate  at  night, 

Spare  us,  poor  ministers  to  such  delight." 

LXI  1 1. 

Howbeit  his  pleading  and  his  gentle  looks 

Moved  not  the  spiteful  Shade  :— Quoth  he,  "  Your  taste 

Shoots  wide  of  mine,  for  I  despise  the  brooks 

And  slavish  rivulets  that  run  to  waste 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  193 

In  noontide  sweats,  or,  like  poor  vassals,  haste 
To  swell  the  vast  dominion  of  the  sea, 
In  whose  great  presence  I  am  held  disgraced, 
And  neighbour'd  with  a  king  that  rivals  me 
In  ancient  might  and  hoary  majesty. 

LXIV. 

"  Whereas  I  ruled  in  Chaos,  and  still  keep 

The  awful  secrets  of  that  ancient  dearth, 

Before  the  briny  fountains  of  the  deep 

Brimm'd  up  in  hollow  cavities  of  earth  ; — 

I  saw  each  trickling  Sea-god  at  his  birth, 

Each  pearly  Naiad  with  her  oozy  locks, 

And  infant  Titans  of  enormous  girth, 

"Whose  huge  young  feet  yet  stumbled  on  the  rocks, 

Stunning  the  early  world  with  frequent  shocks. 

LXV. 

*'  Where  now  is  Titan,  with  his  cumbrous  brood, 
That  scared  the  world  ? — By  this  sharp  scythe  they  fell* 
And  half  the  sky  was  curdled  with  their  blood  : 
So  have  all  primal  giants  sigh'd  farewell. 
No  Wardens  now  by  sedgy  fountams  dwell, 
Nor  pearly  Naiads.     All  their  days  are  done 
That  strove  with  Time,  untimely,  to  excel ; 
Wherefore  I  razed  their  progenies,  and  none 
But  my  great  shadow  intercepts  the  sun  I " 

Lxvr. 

Then  saith  the  timid  Fay—"  O  mighty  Time  I 
Well  hast  thou  wrought  the  cruel  Titans'  fall, 
For  they  were  stain'd  with  many  a  bloody  crime  : 
Great  giants  work  great  wrongs, — but  we  are  small, 
For  love  goes  lowly  ; — but  Oppression's  tall. 
And  with  surpassing  strides  goes  foremost  still 
Where  love  indeed  can  hardly  reach  at  all ; 
Like  a  poor  dwarf  o'erburthen'd  with  good-willy 
That  labours  to  efface  the  tracks  of  ill. 

LXVII. 

"  Man  even  strives  with  Man,  but  we  eschew 
The  guilty  feud,  and  all  fierce  strifes  abhor  ; 
Nay,  we  are  gentle  as  sweet  heaven's  dew, 
Beside  the  red  and  horrid  drops  of  war, 
Weeping  the  cruel  ha^es  men  battle  for, 
Which  worldly  bosoms  nourish  in  our  spite: 
For  in  the  gentle  breast  we  ne'er  withdraw, 
But  only  when  all  love  hath  taken  flight. 
And  youth's  warm  gracious  heart  is  harden'd  quite. 


tM  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 

LXVIII. 

*  So  are  our  gentle  natures  intertwined 
With  sweet  humanities,  and  closely  knit 

In  kindly  sympathy  with  human  kind. 
Witness  how  we  befriend,  with  elfin  wit, 
All  hopeless  maids  and  lovers, — nor  omit 
Magical  succours  unto  hearts  forlorn  : — 

We  charm  man's  life,  and  do  not  perish  it ;— ' 
So  judge  us  by  the  helps  we  show'd  this  morn 
To  one  who  held  his  wretched  days  in  scorn. 

LXIX. 

**  'Twas  nigh  sweet  Amwell  : — for  the  Queen  had  task'd 

Our  skill  to-day  amidst  the  silver  Lea, 
Whereon  the  noontide  sun  had  not  yet  bask'd  ; 
Wherefore  some  patient  man  we  thouj^ht  to  see 
Planted  in  moss-grown  rushes  to  the  knee, 
Beside  the  cloudy  margin  cold  and  dim  ; — 
Howbeit  no  patient  fisherman  was  he 
That  cast  his  sudden  shadow  from  the  brim. 
Making  us  leave  our  toils  to  gaze  on  him. 

LXX. 

**  His  face  was  ashy  pale,  and  leaden  Care 
Had  sunk  the  levell'd  arches  of  his  brow. 
Once  bridges  for  his  joyous  thoughts  to  fare 
Over  those  melancholy  springs  and  slow, 
"That  from  his  piteous  eyes  began  to  flow, 
And  fell  anon  into  the  chilly  stream  ; 
Which,  as  his  mimick'd  image  show'd  belowr. 
Wrinkled  his  face  with  many  a  needless  seam, 
Making  grief  sadder  in  its  own  esteem. 

LXXI. 

**  And  lo  !  upon  the  air  we  saw  him  stretch 
His  passionate  arms  ;  and,  in  a  wayward  strain. 
He  'gan  to  elegise  that  fellow-wretch 
That  with  mute  gestures  answer'd  him  again. 
Saying, '  Poor  slave !  how  long  wilt  thou  remain 
Life's  sad  weak  captive  in  a  prison  strong, 
Hoping  with  tears  to  rust  away  thy  chain, 
In  bitter  servitude  to  worldly  wrong  ? — 
Thou  wear'st  that  mortal  livery  too  long  !' 

LXXII. 

*  This,  with  more  spleenful  speeches  and  some  tean» 
When  he  had  spent  upon  the  imaged  wave, 
Speedily  I  convened  my  eltin  peers 
Under  the  lily-cups,  that  we  might  save 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES,  •95 

This  woful  mortal  from  a  wilful  grave 
By  shrewd  diversions  of  his  mind's  regret, 
Seeing  he  was  mere  Melancholy's  slave, 
That  sank  wherever  a  dark  cloud  he  met, 
And  straight  was  tangled  in  her  secret  net 

Lxxin. 

"Therefore,  as  still  he  watch'd  the  water's  flow, 
Daintily  we  transform'd,  and  with  bright  fins 
Came  glancing  through  the  gloom  ;  some  from  below 
Rose  like  dim  fancies  when  a  dream  begins. 
Snatching  the  light  upon  their  purple  skins  ; 
Then  under  the  broad  leaves  made  slow  retire  : 
One  like  a  golden  galley  bravely  wins 
Its  radiant  course, — another  glows  like  fire,— 
Making  that  wayward  man  our  pranks  admire. 

LXXIV. 

**And  so  he  banish'd  thought,  and  quite  forgot 

All  contemplation  of  that  wretched  face  ; 

And  so  we  wiled  him  from  that  lonely  spot 

Along  the  river's  brink  ;  till,  by  heaven's  grace, 

He  met  a  gentle  haunter  of  the  place. 

Full  of  sweet  wisdom  gather'd  from  the  brooks, 

Who  there  discuss'd  his  melancholy  case 

With  wholesome  texts  learn'd  from  kind  Nature's  books. 

Meanwhile  he  newly  trimm'd  his  lines  and  hooks." 

LXXV. 

Herewith  the  Fairy  ceased.     Quoth  Ariel  now— 
**  Let  me  remember  how  I  saved  a  man. 
Whose  fatal  noose  was  fasten'd  on  a  bough. 
Intended  to  abridge  his  sad  life's  span  ; 
For  haply  I  was  by  when  he  began 
His  stem  soliloquy  in  life's  dispraise, 
And  overheard  his  melancholy  plan, 
How  he  had  made  a  vow  to  end  his  days. 
And  therefore  follow'd  him  in  all  his  ways, 

Lxxvr. 

*  Through  brake  and  tangled  copse, — for  much  he  loathed 

All  populous  haunts,  and  roam'd  in  forests  rude. 

To  hide  himself  from  man.     But  I  had  clothed 

My  delicate  limbs  with  plumes,  and  still  pursued 

Where  only  foxes  and  wild  cats  intrude. 

Till  we  were  come  beside  an  ancient  tree 

Late  blasted  by  a  storm.     Here  he  renew'd 

His  loud  complaints, — choosing  that  spot  to  be 

The  scene  of  his  last  horrid  tragedy. 


THE  FLEA  OF  THB 


LXXVII. 


"  It  was  a  wild  and  melancholy  glen, 
Made  gloomy  by  tall  firs  and  cypress  dark, 
Whose  roots,  like  any  bones  of  buried  men, 
Push'd  through  the  rotten  sod  for  Fear's  remark  } 
A  hundred  horrid  stems,  jagged  and  stark, 
Wrestled  with  crooked  arms  in  hideous  fray, 
Besides  sleek  ashes  with  their  dappled  bark. 
Like  crafty  serpents  climbing  for  a  prey, 
With  many  blasted  oaks  moss-grown  and  grey, 

LXXVIII. 

"  But  here,  upon  his  final  desperate  clause^ 

Suddenly  I  pronounced  so  sweet  a  strain, 

Like  a  pang'd  nightingale,  it  made  him  pause^ 

Till  half  the  frenzy  of  his  grief  was  slain, 

The  sad  remainder  oozing  from  his  brain 

In  timely  ecstasies  of  healing  tears, 

Which  through  his  ardent  eyes  began  to  drain  ;— 

Meanwhile  the  deadly  Fates  unclosed  their  shears  I 

So  pity  me  and  all  my  fated  peers  ! 

LXXIX. 

Thus  Ariel  ended,  and  was  some  time  hush'd. 

When  with  the  hoary  Shape  a  fresh  tongue  pleads, 

And  red  as  rose  the  gentle  Fairy  blush'd 

To  read  the  record  of  her  own  good  deeds  : — 

"  It  chanced,"  quoth  she,  "  in  seeking  through  the  mwidi 

For  honey'd  cowslips,  sweetest  in  the  morn. 

Whilst  yet  the  buds  were  hung  with  dewy  beads, 

And  Echo  answer'd  to  the  huntsman's  horn, 

We  found  a  babe  left  in  the  swarths  forlorn  ;— 

LXXX. 

*  A  little,  sorrowful,  deserted  thing, 
Begot  of  love,  and  yet  no  love  begetting  ; 
Guiltless  of  shame,  and  yet  for  shame  to  wrin*: 
And  too  soon  banish'd  from  a  mother's  petting. 
To  churlish  nurture  and  the  wide  world's  fretting^ 
For  alien  pity  and  unnatural  care  : — 
Alas  !  to  see  how  the  cold  dew  kept  wetting 
His  childish  coats,  and  dabbled  all  his  hair. 
Like  gossamers  across  his  forehead  fair. 

LXXXI. 

**His  pretty  pouting  mouth,  witless  of  speech, 
Lay  half-way  open  like  a  rose-lipp'd  shell  ; 
And  his  young  cheek  was  softer  than  a  peach, 
Whereon  his  tears,  for  roundness  could  not  dwelt, 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  Vff 

But  quickly  roll'd  themselves  to  pearls,  and  fell, 
Some  on  the  grass,  and  some  against  his  hand, 
Or  haply  wander'd  to  the  dimpled  well, 
Which  love  beside  his  mouth  had  sweetly  plann'd, 
Yet  not  for  tears,  but  mirth  and  smilings  bland. 

LXXXII. 

"  Pity  it  was  to  see  those  frequent  tears 
Falling  regardless  from  his  friendless  eyes  ; 
There  was  such  beauty  in  those  twin  blue  spheres, 
As  any  mother's  heart  might  leap  to  prize ; 
Blue  were  they,  like  the  zenith  of  the  skies 
Soften'd  betwixt  two  clouds,  both  clear  and  mild  :— 
Just  touch'd  with  thought,  and  yet  not  over  wise, 
They  show'd  the  gentle  spirit  of  a  child. 
Not  yet  by  care  or  any  craft  defiled 

LXXXIIL 

"Pity  it  was  to  see  the  ardent  sun 

Scorching  his  helpless  limbs — it  shone  so  warm ; 

For  kindly  shade  or  shelter  he  had  none, 

Nor  mother's  gentle  breast,  come  fair  or  storm. 

Meanwhile  I  bade  my  pitying  mates  transform 

Like  grasshoppers,  and  then,  with  shrilly  cries, 

All  round  the  mfant  noisily  we  swarm. 

Haply  some  passing  rustic  to  advise — 

Whilst  providential  Heaven  our  care  espies, 

LXXXIV. 

"And  sends  full  soon  a  tender-hearted  hind. 
Who,  wondering  at  our  loud  unusual  note, 
Strays  curiously  aside,  and  so  doth  find 
The  orphan  child  laid  in  the  grass  remote, 
And  laps  the  foundling  in  his  russet  coat, 
Who  thence  was  nurtured  in  his  kindly  cot  :— 
But  how  he  prosper'd  let  proud  London  quote. 
How  wise,  how  rich,  and  how  renown'd  he  got. 
And  chief  of  all  her  citizens,  I  wot. 

LXXXV. 

"  Witness  his  goodly  vessels  on  the  Thames^ 

Whose  holds  were  fraught  with  costly  merchandise,— 

Jewels  from  Ind,  nnd  pearls  for  courtly  dames. 

And  gorgeous  silks  that  Samarcand  supplies  : 

Witness  that  royal  Bourse  he  bade  arise, 

The  mart  of  mt  rchants  from  the  East  and  West  ; 

Whose  slender  summit,  pointing  to  the  skies, 

Still  bears,  in  token  of  his  grateful  breast. 

The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest — 


2q8  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 


LXXXVI. 

"The  tender  grasshopper,  his  chosen  crest, 

That  all  the  summer,  with  a  tuneful  wing, 

Makes  merry  chirpings  in  its  grassy  nest, 

Inspirited  with  dew  to  leap  and  sing  : — 

So  let  us  also  live,  eternal  King  ! 

Partakers  of  the  green  and  pleasant  earth  : — 

Pity  it  is  to  slay  the  meanest  thing. 

That,  like  a  mote,  shines  in  the  smile  of  mirth  :— 

Enough  there  is  of  joy's  decease  and  dearth  ! 

LXXXVII. 

**  Enough  of  pleasure,  and  delight,  and  beauty, 

Perish'd  and  gone,  and  hasting  to  decay  ;— 

Enough  to  sadden  even  thee,  whose  duty 

Or  spite  it  is  to  havoc  and  to  slay  ; 

Too  many  a  lovely  race  razed  quite  away. 

Hath  left  large  gaps  in  life  and  human  loving  :— 

Here  then  begin  thy  cruel  war  to  stay, 

And  spare  fresh  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans,  reprovii^ 

Thy  desolating  hand  for  our  removing." 

LXXXVIII. 

Now  here  I  heard  a  shrill  and  sudden  cry, 
And,  looking  up,  I  saw  the  antic  Puck 
Grappling  with  Time,  who  clutch'd  him  like  a  fly, 
Victim  of  his  own  sport, — the  jester's  luck  ! 
He,  whilst  his  fellows  grieved,  poor  wight,  had  stuck 
His  freakish  gauds  upon  the  Ancient's  brow, 
And  now  his  ear,  and  now  his  beard,  would  pluck ; 
Whereat  the  angry  churl  had  snatch'd  him  now. 
Crying,  "  Thou  impish  mischief,  who  art  thou  ?  * 

LXXXIX. 

*  Alas  r"  quoth  Puck,  "a  little  random  elf, 
Born  in  the  sport  of  nature,  like  a  weed, 
For  simple  sweet  enjoyment  of  myself, 
But  for  no  other  purpose,  worth,  or  need  ; 
And  yet  withal  of  a  most  happy  breed  : — 
And  there  is  Robin  Goodfellow  besides, 
My  partner  dear  in  many  a  prankish  deed 
To  make  Dame  Laughter  hold  her  jolly  sides, 
Like  merry  mummers  twain  on  holy  tides. 

XC. 

"  'Tis  we  that  bob  the  an.i,'ler  s  idle  cork. 
Till  e'en  the  patient  man  breathes  half  a  curse  ; 
We  steal  the  morsel  from  the  gossip's  fork, 
And  curdling  looks  with  secret  straws  disperse, 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  a99 

Or  stop  the  sneezing  chanter  at  mid-verse  : 

And  when  an  infants  beauty  prospers  ill. 

We  change,  some  mothers  say,  the  child  at  nurse 

But  any  graver  purpose  to  fulfil, 

We  have  not  wit  enough,  and  scarce  the  wilL 

XCI. 

"  We  never  let  the  canker  melancholy 

To  gather  on  our  faces  like  a  rust,  « 

But  gloss  our  features  with  some  change  of  folly, 

Taking  life's  fabled  miseries  on  trust. 

But  only  sorrowing  when  sorrow  must : 

We  ruminate  no  sage's  solemn  cud, 

But  own  ourselves  a  pinch  of  lively  dust 

To  frisk  upon  a  wind, — whereas  the  flood 

Of  tears  would  turn  us  into  heavy  mud. 

XCII. 

"  Beshrew  those  sad  mterpreters  of  nature, 

Who  gloze  her  lively  universal  law, 

As  if  she  had  not  form'd  our  clieerful  feature 

To  be  so  tickled  with  the  slightest  straw  ! 

So  let  them  vex  their  mumping  mouths,  and  draw 

The  corners  downward,  like  a  watery  moon, 

And  deal  in  gusty  sighs  and  rainy  flaw — 

We  will  not  woo  foul  weather  all  too  soon, 

Or  nurse  November  on  the  lap  of  June. 

XCIII. 

**  For  ours  are  winging  sprites,  like  any  bird. 
That  shun  all  stagnant  settlements  of  grief ; 
And  even  in  our  rest  our  hearts  are  stirr'd. 
Like  insects  settled  on  a  dancing  leaf: — 
This  is  our  small  philosophy  in  brief, 
Which  thus  to  teach  hath  set  me  all  agape; 
But  dost  thou  relish  it?     O  hoary  chief! 
Unclasp  thy  crooked  fingers  from  my  nape, 
And  I  will  show  thee  many  a  pleasant  scrape.'* 

XCIV. 

Then  Saturn  thus  : — shaking  his  crooked  blade 
O'erhead,  which  made  aloft  a  lightning  flash 
In  all  the  fairies'  eyes,  dismally  fray'd  ! 
His  ensuing  voice  came  like  the  thunder  crash- 
Meanwhile  the  bolt  shatters  some  pine  or  ash — 
"  Thou  feeble,  wanton,  foolish,  fickle  thing  ! 
Whom  nought  can  frighten,  sadden,  or  abash,—    • 
To  hope  my  solemn  countenance  to  wring 
To  idiot  smiles  1 — but  I  will  prune  thy  wing  ! 


SOO  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 


XCV. 

**Lo  !  this  most  awful  handle  of  my  scythe 
Stood  once  a  Maypole,  with  a  flowery  crown, 
Which  rustics  danced  around,  and  maidens  blithe, 
To  wanton  pipings  ; — but  I  pluck'd  it  down. 
And  robed  the  May  Queen  in  a  churchyard  gown. 
Turning  her  buds  to  rosemary  and  rue  ; 
And  all  their  merry  minstrelsy  did  drown, 
And  laid  each  lusty  leaper  in  the  dew  ;  — 
So  thou  shalt  fare — and  every  jovial  crew  1  • 

XCVI. 

Here  he  lets  go  the  struggling  imp,  to  clutch 
His  mortal  engine  with  each  grisly  hand, 
Which  frights  the  ellin  progeny  so  much, 
They  huddle  in  a  heap,  and  trembling  stand 
All  round  Titania,  like  the  queen  bee's  band. 
With  sighs  and  tears  and  very  shrieks  of  woe  !— 
Meanwhile,  some  moving  argument  I  plann'd. 
To  make  the  stern  Shade  merciful, — when  lo  I 
He  drops  his  fatal  scythe  without  a  blow  ! 

XCVII. 

For,  just  at  need,  a  timely  Apparition 

Steps  in  between,  to  bear  the  anful  brunt ; 

Making  him  change  his  horrible  position. 

To  marvel  at  this  comer,  brave  and  blunt, 

That  dares  Time's  irresistible  affront, 

Whose  strokes  have  scarr'd  even  the  gods  of  old  ,"^— 

Whereas  this  seeni'd  a  mortal,  at  mere  hunt 

For  coneys,  lighted  by  the  moonshine  cold, 

Or  stalker  of  stray  deer,  stealthy  and  bold. 

XCVIII. 

Who,  turning  to  the  small  assembled  fays. 
Doffs  to  the  lily  queen  his  courteous  cap, 
And  holds  her  beauty  for  awhile  in  gaze, 
With  bright  eyes  kindling  at  this  pleasant  hap; 
And  thence  upon  the  fair  moon's  silver  map. 
As  if  in  question  of  this  magic  chance, 
Laid  like  a  dream  upon  the  green  earth's  lap; 
And  then  upon  old  Saturn  turns  askance. 
Exclaiming,  with  a  glad  and  kindly  glance  :— 

XCIX. 

**  Oh,  these  be  Fancy's  revellers  by  night  i 
Stealthy  companions  of  the  downy  moth- 
Diana's  motes,  that  flit  in  her  pale  light, 
Shunners  of  sunbeams  in  diurnal  sloth  ;— 


MIDSUMMER  FA  FRIES.  30s 

These  be  the  feasters  on  night's  silver  cloth, — 
The  gnat  with  shrilly  trump  is  their  convener, 
Forth  from  their  flowery  chambers,  nothing  loth., 
With  lulling  tunes  to  charm  the  air  serener, 
Or  dance  upon  the  grass  to  make  it  greener. 


"  These  be  the  pretty  genii  of  the  flowers, 

Daintily  fed  with  honey  and  pure  dew — 

Midsummer's  phantoms  in  her  dreaming  hours, 

King  Oberon,  and  all  his  merry  crew, 

The  darling  puppets  of  romance's  view  ; 

Fairies,  and  sprites,  and  goblin  elves  we  call  them. 

Famous  for  patronage  of  lovers  true  ; — 

No  harm  they  act,  neither  shall  harm  befall  them, 

So  do  not  thus  with  crabbed  frowns  appal  them." 

CI. 

Oh,  what  a  cry  was  Saturn's  then  ! — it  made 

The  fairies  quake.    "  What  care  I  for  their  pranks. 

However  they  may  lovers  choose  to  aid, 

Or  dance  their  roundelays  on  flowery  banks? — 

Long  must  they  dance  before  they  earn  my  thanks,- 

So  step  aside,  to  some  far  safer  spot, 

Whilst  with  my  hungry  scythe  I  mow  their  ranks, 

And  leave  them  in  the  sun,  like  weeds,  to  rot. 

And  with  the  next  day's  sun  to  be  forgot." 

CIL 

Anon,  he  raised  afresh  his  weapon  keen  ; 
But  still  the  gracious  Shade  disarm'd  his  aim, 
Stepping  with  brave  alacrity  between, 
And  made  his  sere  arm  powerless  and  tame. 
His  be  perpetual  glory,  for  the  shame 
Of  hoary  Saturn  in  that  grand  defeat ! — • 
But  I  must  tell  how  here  Titania  came 
With  all  her  kneeling  lieges,  to  entreat 
His  kindly  succour,  in  sad  tones,  but  sweeL 

CIII. 

Saying,  "  Thou  seest  a  wretched  queen  before  thee^ 

The  fading  power  of  a  failing  land, 

Who  for  her  kingdom  kneeleth  to  implore  thee, 

Now  menaced  by  this  tyrant's  spoiling  hand  ; 

No  one  but  thee  can  hopefully  withstand 

That  crooked  blade,  he  longeth  so  to  lift. 

I  pray  thee  blind  him  with  his  own  vile  sand. 

Which  only  times  all  ruins  by  its  drift. 

Or  prune  his  eagle  wings  that  are  so  swift. 


|Qa  THE  PLEA  OF  TUB 


CIV. 

"Or  take  him  by  that  sole  and  grizzled  tuft, 
That  hangs  upon  his  bald  and  barren  crown; 
And  we  will  sing  to  see  him  so  rebut'fd, 
And  lend  our  little  mights  to  pull  him  down, 
And  make  brave  sport  of  his  malicious  frown. 
For  all  his  boastful  mockery  o'er  men. 
For  thou  w.ist  born,  I  know,  for  this  renown. 
By  my  most  magical  and  inward  ken, 
That  readeth  even  at  Fate's  forestalling  pen. 

cv. 

"  Nay,  by  the  golden  lustre  of  thine  eye, 
And  by  thy  brow's  most  fair  and  ample  span, 
Thought's  glorious  palace,  framed  for  fancies  higl^ 
And  by  thy  cheek  thus  passionately  wan, — 
I  know  the  signs  of  an  immortal  man, — 
Nature's  chief  darling,  and  illustrious  mate, 
Destined  to  foil  old  Death's  oblivious  plan, 
And  shine  untarnish'd  by  the  fogs  of  Fate, 
Time's  famous  rival  till  the  final  date  1 

CVI. 

"Oh,  shield  us  then  from  this  usurping  Time, 
And  we  will  visit  thee  in  moonlight  dreams, 
And  teach  thee  tunes  to  wed  unto  thy  rhyme, 
And  dance  about  thee  in  all  midnight  gleams, 
Giving  thee  glimpses  of  our  magic  schemes, 
Such  as  no  mortal's  eye  hath  ever  seen  ; 
And,  for  thy  love  to  us  in  our  extremes, 
Will  ever  keep  thy  chaplet  fresh  and  green, 
Such  as  no  poet's  wreath  hath  ever  been  1 

CVI  I. 

"  And  we'll  distil  thee  aromatic  dews, 

To  charm  thy  sense,  when  there  shall  be  no  iloven  ; 

And  flavour'd  s\rups  in  thy  drinks  infuse, 
And  teach  the  nightingale  to  haunt  thy  bowers. 
And  with  our  games  divert  thy  weariest  hours. 
With  all  that  elfin  wits  can  e'er  devise. 
And  this  churl  dead,  there'll  be  no  hasting  hours 
To  rob  thee  of  thy  joys,  as  now  joy  flies  :  " — 
Here  she  was  stopp'd  by  Saturn's  furious  cries ; 

cviri. 

Whom,  therefore,  the  kind  Shade  rebukes  anew. 
Saying, "  Thou  haggard  Sin  !  go  forth,  and  scoop 
Thy  hollow  coffin  in  some  churchyard  yew. 
Or  make  th'  autumnal  flowers  turn  pale,  and  droop; 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  JCQ 

Or  fell  the  bearded  com,  till  gleaners  stoop 
Under  fat  sheaves, — or  blast  the  piny  grove  ; — 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  harm  this  pretty  groups 
Whose  lives  are  not  so  frail  and  feebly  wove, 
But  leased  on  Nature's  loveliness  and  love. 

CIX. 

*"Tis  these  that  free  the  small  entangled  fly, 
Caught  in  the  venom'd  spider's  crafty  snare  ;— 
These  be  the  petty  surgeons  that  apply 
The  healing  balsams  to  the  wounded  hare, 
Bedded  in  bloody  fern,  no  creature's  care  ! — 
These  be  providers  for  the  orphan  brood, 
Whose  tender  mother  hath  been  slain  in  air. 
Quitting  with  gaping  bill  her  darling's  food, 
Hard  by  the  verge  of  her  domestic  wood. 

cx> 

*'  'Tis  these  befriend  the  timid  trembling  stag. 
When,  with  a  bursting  heart  beset  with  fears. 
He  feels  his  saving  speed  begin  to  flag  ; 
For  then  they  quench  the  fatal  taint  with  tears. 
And  prompt  fresh  shifts  in  his  alarum'd  ears. 
So  pitcously  they  view  all  bloody  morts  ; 
Or  if  the  gunner,  with  his  arm,  appears, 
Like  noisy  pyes  and  jays,  with  harsh  reports, 
They  warn  th^pilddiawl  of  his  deadly  sports. 

CXI. 

"  For  these  are  kindly  ministers  of  nature, 
To  soothe  all  covert  hurts  and  dumb  distress  ; 
Pretty  they  be,  and  very  small  of  stature, — 
For  mercy  still  consorts  with  littleness  ; — 
Wherefore  the  sum  of  good  is  still  the  less, 
And  mischief  grossest  in  this  world  of  wrong  ;— • 
So  do  these  charitable  dwarfs  redress 
The  tenfold  ravages  of  giants  strong, 
To  whom  great  malice  and  great  might  belong. 

CXII. 

**  Likewise  to  them  are  Poets  much  beholden 
For  secret  favours  in  the  midnight  glooms  ; 
Brave  Spenser  quaff  d  out  of  their  goblets  golden, 
And  saw  their  tables  spread  of  prompt  mushroomSi 
And  heard  their  horns  of  honeysuckle  blooms 
Sounding  upon  the  air  most  soothing  soft, 
Like  humnimg  bees  busy  about  the  brooms, — 
And  glanced  this  fair  queen's  witchery  full  oft. 
And  in  her  magic  w  ain  soar'd  far  aloft. 


304  THE  PLEA  OF  THE 


CXIII. 

**  Nay,  I  myself,  though  mortal,  once  was  nursed 

By  fairy  gossips,  friendly  at  my  birth, 

And  in  my  childish  ear  glib  Mab  rehearsed 

Her  breezy  travels  round  our  planet's  girth, 

Telling  me  wonders  of  the  moon  and  earth ; 

My  gramarye  at  her  grave  lap  I  conn'd, 

Where  Puck  hath  been  convened  to  make  me  mirth . 

I  have  had  from  Queen  Titania  tokens  fond, 

And  to/d  with  Oberon's  permitted  wand. 

CXIV. 

**  With  figs  and  plums  and  Persian  dates  they  fed  me^ 
And  delicate  cates  after  my  sunset  meal. 
And  took  me  by  my  childish  hand  and  led  me 
By  craggy  rocks  crested  with  keeps  of  steel, 
"Whose  awful  bases  deep  dark  woods  conceal, 
Staining  some  dead  lake  with  their  verdant  dyes  : 
And  when  the  West  sparkled  at  Phoebus'  wheel, 
With  fairy  euphrasy  they  purged  mine  eyes, 
To  let  me  see  their  cities  in  the  skies. 

cxv. 

"'Twas  they  first  school'd  my  young  imagination 

To  take  its  flights  like  any  new-fledjed  bird, 

And  show'd  the  span  of  winged  meditation 

Stretch'd  wider  than  things  grossly  seen  or  heard  ; 

With  sweet  swift  Ariel  how  I  soar'd  and  stirred 

The  fragrant  blooms  of  spiritual  bowers  ! 

'Twas  they  endear'd  what  I  have  still  preferr'd, 

Nature's  blest  attributes  and  balmy  powers. 

Her  hills,  and  vales,  and  brooks,  sweet  birds  and  flowen  \ 

cxvi. 

"WTierefore  with  all  true  loyalty  and  duty 

Will  I  regard  them  in  my  honouring  rhyme, 

With  love  for  love,  and  homages  to  beauty. 

And  magic  thoughts  gather'd  in  night's  cool  clime, 

With  studious  verse  trancing  the  dragon  Time, 

Strong  as  old  Merlin's  necromantic  spells  ; 

So  these  dear  monarchs  of  the  summer's  prime 

Shall  live  unstartled  by  his  dreadful  yells, 

Till  shrill  larks  warn  them  to  their  flowery  cells.* 

CXVII. 

Look  how  a  poison'd  man  turns  livid  black, 
Drugg'd  with  a  cup  of  deadly  hellebore. 
That  sets  his  horrid  features  all  at  rack, — 
So  seem'd  these  words  into  the  ear  to  pour 


MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES.  loj 

Of  ghastly  Saturn,  answering  with  a  roar 
Of  mortal  pain  and  spite  and  utmost  rage, 
Wherewith  his  grisly  arm  he  raised  once  more, 
And  bade  the  clustered  sinews  all  engage, 
As  if  at  one  fell  stroke  to  wreck  an  age. 

CXVIII. 

Whereas  the  blade  flash'd  on  the  dinted  ground, 
Down  through  his  ste;idfast  foe,  yet  made  no  scar 
On  that  immortal  Shade,  or  death-like  wound ; 
But  Time  was  long  benumb'd,  and  stood  ajar, 
And  then  with  baffled  rage  took  flight  afar, 
To  weep  his  hurt  in  some  Cimmerian  gloom, 
Or  meaner  fames  (like  mine)  to  mock  and  mar, 
Or  sharp  his  scythe  for  royal  strokes  of  doom, 
Whetting  its  edge  on  some  old  Caesar's  tomb. 

CXIX. 

Howbeit  he  vanish'd  in  the  forest  shade, 
Distantly  heard  as  if  some  grumbling  pard, 
And,  like  Narcissus,  to  a  sound  decay'd  ; — 
Meanwhile  the  fays  cluster'd  the  gracious  Bard, 
The  darling  centre  of  their  dear  regard  : 
Besides  of  sundry  dances  on  the  green. 
Never  was  mortal  man  so  brightly  starr'd, 
Or  won  such  pretty  homages,  I  ween. 
**  Nod  to  him.  Elves  ! "  cries  the  melodious  queen* 

cxx. 

**Nod  to  him,  Elves,  and  flutter  round  about  him. 
And  quite  enclose  him  with  your  pretty  crowd, 
And  touch  him  lovingly,  for  that,  without  him. 
The  silkworm  now  had  spun  our  dreary  shroud  f— 
But  he  hath  all  dispersed  death's  tearful  cloud, 
And  Time's  dread  effigy  scared  quite  away  : 
Bow  to  him  then,  as  though  to  me  ye  bow'd. 
And  his  dear  wishes  prosper  and  obey 
Wherever  love  and  wit  can  find  a  way  1 

CXXI. 

•*  'Noint  him  with  fairy  dews  of  magic  savours, 
Shaken  from  orient  buds  still  pearly  wet, 
Roses  and  spicy  pinks, — and,  of  all  favours, 
Plant  in  his  walks  the  purple  violet, 
And  meadow-sweet  under  the  hedges  set. 
To  mingle  breaths  with  dainty  eglantine 
And  honeysuckles  sweet, — nor  yet  forget 
Some  pastoral  flowery  chaplets  to  entwine. 
To  vie  the  thoughts  about  his  brow  benign ! 


5o6  PLEA  OF  THE  MIDSUMMER  FAIRIES. 

CXXII. 

"  Let  no  wild  things  astonish  him  or  fear  him, 
But  tell  them  all  how  mild  he  is  of  heart, 
Till  e'en  the  timid  hares  go  frankly  near  him, 
And  eke  the  dappled  does,  yet  never  start  ; 
Nor  shall  their  fawns  into  the  thickets  dart. 
Nor  wrens  forsake  their  nests  among  the  leaves, 
Nor  speckled  thrushes  flutter  far  apart  ;— 
But  bid  the  sacred  swallow  haunt  his  eaves. 
To  guard  his  roof  from  lightning  and  from  thieves. 

CXXIII. 

"  Or  when  he  goes  the  nimble  squirrel's  visitor, 
Let  the  brown  hermit  bring  his  hoarded  nuts, 
For,  tell  him,  this  is  Nature's  kind  Inquisitor, — 
Though  man  keeps  cautious  doors  that  conscience  shuts, 
For  conscious  wrong  all  curious  quest  rebuts, — 
Nor  yet  shall  bees  uncase  their  jealous  stings, 
However  he  may  watch  their  straw-built  huts  ; — 
So  let  him  learn  the  crafts  of  all  small  things, 
Which  he  will  hint  most  aptly  when  he  sings." 

CXXIV. 

Here  she  leaves  off,  and  with  a  graceful  hand 
Waves  thrice  three  splendid  circles  round  his  head ; 
Which,  though  deserted  by  the  radiant  wand, 
Wears  still  the  glory  which  her  waving  shed, 
•     Such  as  erst  crown'd  the  old  Apostle's  head, 

To  show  the  thoughts  there  harbour'd  were  divine, 
And  on  immortal  contemplations  fed  : — 
Goodly  it  was  to  see  that  glory  shine 
Around  a  brow  so  lofty  and  benign  1 

cxxv. 

Goodly  it  was  to  see  the  elfin  brood 
Contend  for  kisses  of  his  gentle  hand, 
That  had  their  mortal  enemy  withstood, 
And  stay'd  their  lives,  fast  ebbing  with  the  sand. 
Long  while  this  strife  engaged  the  pretty  band  ; 
But  now  bold  Chanticleer,  from  farm  to  farm, 
Challenged  the  dawn  creeping  o'er  eastern  land. 
And  well  the  fairies  knew  that  shrill  alarm, 
Which  sounds  the  knell  of  every  elfish  charm. 

CXXVI. 

And  soon  the  rolling  mist,  that  'gan  arise 
From  plashy  mead  and  undiscover'd  stream. 
Earth's  morning  incense  to  the  early  skies. 
Crept  o'er  the  failing  landscape  of  my  dream. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  goj 

Soon  faded  then  the  Phantom  of  my  theme — 
A  shapeless  shade,  that  fancy  disavow'd, 
And  shrank  to  nothing  in  the  mist  extreme. 
Then  flew  Titania,— and  her  little  crowd, 
Like  flocking  linnets,  vanish'd  in  a  cloud. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


TO  S.   T.   COLERIDGE,   ESQ. 

It  is  not  with  a  hope  my  feeble  praise 

Can  add  one  moment's  honour  to  thy  own, 

That  with  thy  mighty  name  I  grace  these  lays ; 

I  seek  to  glorify  myself  alone  : 

For  that  some  precious  favour  thou  hast  shown 

To  my  endeavour  in  a  bygone  time, 

And  by  this  token,  I  would  have  it  known 

Thou  art  my  friend,  and  friendly  to  my  rhyme  1 

It  is  my  dear  ambition  now  to  climb 

Still  higher  in  thy  thought, — if  my  bold  pen 

May  thrust  on  contemplations  more  sublime.— 

But  I  am  thirsty  for  thy  praise,  for  when 

We  gain  applauses  from  the  great  in  name, 

We  seem  to  be  partakers  of  their  fame. 


O  BARDS  of  old  !  what  sorrows  have  ye  sung, 
And  tragic  stories,  chronickd  in  stone, — 
Sad  Philomel  restored  her  ravish'd  tongue, 
And  transform'd  Niobe  in  dumbness  shown  ; 
Sweet  Sappho  on  her  love  for  ever  calls, 
And  Hero  on  the  drown'd  Leander  falls  ! 

II. 

Was  it  that  spectacles  of  sadder  plights 
Should  make  our  blisses  relish  the  more  high? 
Then  all  fair  dames,  and  maidens,  and  true  k'night% 
Whose  flourish'd  fortunes  prosper  in  Love's  eye, 
Weep  here,  unto  a  tale  of  ancient  grief. 
Traced  from  the  course  of  an  old  bas-relief. 

III. 

There  stands  Abydos  ! — here  is  Sestos'  steep, 
Hard  by  the  gusty  margin  of  the  sea. 
Where  sprinkling  waves  continually  do  leap  ; 
And  that  is  where  those  famous  lovers  be, 
A  builded  gloom  shot  up  into  the  grey, 
As  if  the  first  tall  watch-tower  of  the  day. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER, 

IV. 

Lo  !  how  the  lark  soars  upward  and  is  gone  ; 
Turning  a  spirit  as  he  nears  the  sky, 
His  voice  is  heard,  though  body  there  is  non^ 
And  rainhke  music  scatters  from  on  high  ; 
But  Love  would  follow  with  a  falcon  spite, 
To  pluck  the  minstrel  from  his  dewy  height 


For  Love  hath  framed  a  ditty  of  regrets, 
Tuned  to  the  hollow  sobbings  on  the  shore, 
A  vexing  sense,  that  with  like  music  frets, 
And  chimes  this  dismal  burthen  o'er  and  o'er, 
Saying,  Leander's  joys  are  past  and  spent, 
Like  stars  extinguish'd  in  the  firmament. 

VI. 

For  ere  the  golden  crevices  of  mom 

Let  in  those  regal  luxuries  of  light 

Which  all  the  variable  east  adorn. 

And  hang  rich  fringes  on  the  skirts  of  night, 

Leander,  weaning  from  sweet  Hero's  side, 

Must  leave  a  widow  where  he  found  a  bride. 

VII. 

Hark  how  the  billows  beat  upon  the  sand  ! 
Like  pawing  steeds  impatient  of  delay  ; 
Meanwhile  their  rider,  lingering  on  the  land. 
Dallies  with  love,  and  holds  farewell  at  bay 
A  too  short  span. — How  tedious  slow  is  grief  I 
But  parting  renders  time  both  sad  and  brief. 

VIII. 

"Alas  !  (he  sigh'd),  that  this  first  glimpsing  light, 

Which  makes  the  wide  world  tenderly  appear, 

Should  be  the  burning  signal  for  my  flight, 

From  all  the  world's  best  image,  which  is  here  ; 

Whose  very  shadow,  in  my  fond  compare. 

Shines  far  more  bright  than  Beauty's  self  elsewhere.* 

IX. 

Their  checks  are  white  as  blossoms  of  the  dark. 
Whose  leaves  close  up  and  show  the  outward  pale, 
And  those  fair  mirrors  where  their  joys  did  spark, 
All  dim  and  tarnish'd  with  a  dreary  veil, 
No  more  to  kindle  till  the  night's  return, 
Like  stars  replenish'd  at  Joy's  golden  urn. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER,  309 

X. 

Even  thus  they  creep  into  the  spectral  grey, 
That  cramps  the  landscape  in  its  narrow  brira, 
As  when  two  shadows  by  old  Lethe  stray, 
He  clasping  her,  and  she  entwining  him  ; 
Like  trees  wind-parted  that  embrace  anon, 
•True  love  so  often  goes  before  'tis  gone. 

XI. 

For  what  rich  merchant  but  will  pause  in  fear, 
To  trust  his  wealth  to  the  unsafe  abyss  ? 
So  Hero  dotes  upon  her  treasure  here. 
And  sums  the  loss  with  many  an  anxious  kiss, 
Whilst  her  fond  eyes  grow  dizzy  in  her  head, 
Fear  aggravating  fear  with  shows  of  dread. 

XII. 

She  thinks  how  many  have  been  sunk  and  drown'd. 
And  spies  their  snow-white  bones  below  the  deep, 
Then  calls  huge  congregated  monsters  round, 
And  plants  a  rock  wherever  he  \\  ould  leap  ; 
Anon  she  dwells  on  a  fantastic  dream. 
Which  she  interprets  of  that  fatal  stream. 

XIII. 

Saying,  "That  honey'd  fly  I  saw  was  thee. 
Which  lighted  on  a  waterlily's  cup, 
When  lo  !  the  flower,  enamour'd  of  my  bee, 
Closed  on  him  suddenly,  and  lock'd  him  up. 
And  he  was  smother'd  in  her  drenching  dew ; 
Therefore  this  day  thy  drowning  I  shall  rue." 

XIV, 

But  next,  remembering  her  virgin  fame. 

She  clips  him  in  her  arms  and  bids  him  go  ; 

But  seeing  him  break  loose,  repents  her  shame, 

And  plucks  him  back  upon  her  bosom's  snow  ; 

And  tears  unfix  her  iced  resolve  again, 

As  steadfast  frosts  are  thaw'd  by  showers  of  rain. 

XV. 

Oh,  for  a  type  of  parting  ! — Love  to  love 
Is  like  the  fond  attraction  of  two  spheres, 
Which  needs  a  godlike  effort  to  remove, 
And  then  sink  down  their  sunny  atmospheres, 
In  rain  and  darkness  on  each  ruin'd  heart, 
Nor  yet  their  melodies  will  sound  apart. 


310  HERO  AND  LEANDER^ 


XVI. 

So  brave  Leander  sunders  from  his  bride  ; 

The  wrenching  pang  disparts  liis  soul  in  twain  ; 

Half  stays  with  her,  half  goes  towards  the  tide, — 

And  hfe  must  ache,  until  they  join  again. 

Now  wouldst  thou  know  the  wideness  of  the  wound) 

Mete  every  step  he  takes  upon  the  ground. 

XVII. 

And  for  the  agony  and  bosom-throe, 

Let  it  be  measured  by  the  wide  vast  air ; 

For  that  is  infinite,  and  so  is  woe. 

Since  parted  lovers  breathe  it  everywhere. 

Look  how  it  heaves  Leander's  labouring  chest, 

Panting,  at  poise,  upon  a  rocky  crest  1 

XVIII. 

From  which  he  leaps  into  the  scooping  brine. 
That  shocks  his  bosom  with  a  double  chill ; 
Because,  all  hours,  till  the  slow  sun's  decline. 
That  cold  divorcer  will  betwixt  them  still ; 
Wherefore  he  likens  it  to  Styx'  foul  tide,_ 
Where  life  grows  death  upon  the  other  side. 

XIX, 

Then  sadly  he  confronts  his  twofold  toil 
Against  rude  waves  and  an  unwilling  mind, 
Wishing,  alas  1  with  the  stout  rower's  toil, 
That  like  a  rower  he  might  gaze  behind, 
And  watch  that  lonely  statue  he  hath  left 
On  her  bleak  summit,  weeping  and  bereft  I 

XX. 

Yet  turning  oft,  he  sees  her  troubled  locks 
Pursue  him  still  the  furthest  that  they  may  ; 
Her  marble  arms  that  overstretch  the  rocks, 
And  her  pale  passion'd  hands  that  seem  to  pray 
In  dumb  petition  to  the  gods  above  : 
Love  prays  devoutly  when  it  prays  for  love  i 

XXI. 

Then  with  deep  sighs  he  blows  away  the  wave. 
That  hangs  superiluous  tears  upon  his  cheek, 
And  bans  his  labour  like  a  hopeless  slave. 
That,  chain'd  in  hostile  galley,  faint  and  weak, 
Plies  on  despairing  throuj^h  the  restless  foam. 
Thoughtful  of  his  lost  love,  and  far-off  home. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER,  311 


XXII. 


The  drowsy  mist  before  him,  chill  and  dank, 
Like  a  dull  lethargy  o'erleans  the  sea, 
Where  he  rows  on  against  the  utter  blank, 
Steering  as  if  to  dim  eternity, — 
Like  Loves  frail  ghost  departing  with  the  dawn, 
A  failing  shadow  in  the  twilight  drawn. 


XXIII. 

And  soon  is  gone, — or  nothing  but  a  faint 
And  failing  image  in  the  eye  of  thought, 
That  mocks  his  model  with  an  after-paint, 
And  stains  an  atom  hke  the  shape  she  sought ; 
Then  with  her  earnest  vows  she  hopes  to  fee 
The  old  and  hoary  majesty  of  sea. 

XXIV. 

•*  O  King  of  waves,  and  brother  of  high  Jove  I 
Preserve  my  sumless  venture  there  afloat  ; 
A  woman's  heart,  and  its  whole  wealth  of  love, 
Are  all  embark'd  upon  that  little  boat  ; 
Nay,  but  two  loves,  two  lives,  a  double  fate, 
A  perilous  voyage  for  so  dear  a  freight. 

XXV. 

•*  If  impious  mariners  be  stain'd  with  crime. 
Shake  not  in  awful  rage  thy  hoary  locks  ; 
Lay  by  thy  storms  until  another  time, 
Lest  my  frail  bark  be  dash'd  against  the  rocks  : 
Oh,  rather  smooth  thy  deeps,  that  he  may  fly 
Like  Love  himself,  upon  a  seeming  sky  I 

XXVI. 

"Let  all  thy  herded  monsters  sleep  beneath, 

Nor  gore  him  with  crook'd  tusks,  or  wreathed  horns. 

Let  no  fierce  sharks  destroy  him  with  their  teeth. 

Nor  spine-fish  wound  him  with  their  venom'd  thorns; 

But  if  he  faint,  and  timely  succour  lack, 

Let  ruthful  dolphins  rest  him  on  their  back. 

XXVII. 

**  Let  no  false  dimpling  whirlpools  suck  him  in, 
Nor  slimy  quicksands  smother  his  sweet  breath  ; 
Let  no  jagg'd  corals  tear  his  tender  skin. 
Nor  mountain  billows  bury  him  in  death  ;" 
And  with  that  thought  forestalling  her  own  fears, 
She  drown'd  his  painted  image  in  her  tears. 


3ia  HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


XXVIIL 

By  this,  the  climbing  sun,  with  rest  repair'd, 
Look'd  through  the  gold  embrasures  of  the  sky, 
And  ask'd  the  drowsy  world  how  she  had  fared  ;— 
The  drowsy  world  shone  brighten'd  in  reply  ; 
And  smiling  off  her  fogs,  his  slanting  beam 
Spied  young  Leander  in  the  middle  stream. 

XXIX. 

His  face  was  pallid,  but  the  hectic  mom 
Had  hung  a  lying  crimson  on  his  cheeks. 
And  slanderous  sparkles  in  his  eyes  forlorn  ; 
So  death  lies  ambush'd  in  consumptive  streaks ; 
But  inward  grief  was  writhing  o'er  its  task, 
As  heart-sick  jesters  weep  behind  the  mask. 

XXX. 

He  thotight  of  Hero  and  the  lost  delight, 
Her  last  embracings,  and  the  space  between ; 
He  thought  of  Hero  and  the  future  ni^^ht. 
Her  speechless  rapture  and  enamour'd  mien  ; 
When  lo !  before  him,  scarce  two  galleys'  space^ 
His  thought's  confronted  with  another  face  1 

XXXI. 

Her  aspect's  like  a  moon  divinely  fair. 
But  makes  the  midnight  darker  that  it  lies  on  ; 
'Tis  so  beclouded  with  her  coal-black  hair 
That  densely  skirts  her  luminous  horizon, 
Making  her  doubly  fair,  thus  darkly  set, 
As  marble  lies  advantaged  upon  jet. 

XXXII. 

She's  all  too  bright,  too  argent,  and  too  pale, 

To  be  a  woman  ; — but  a  woman's  double, 

Reflected  on  the  wave  so  faint  and  frail. 

She  tops  the  billows  like  an  air-blown  bubble  ; 

Or  dim  creation  of  a  morning  dream, 

Fair  as  the  wave-bleach'd  lily  of  the  stream. 

XXXIII. 

The  very  rumour  strikes  his  seeing  dead  : 

Great  beauty  like  great  fear  first  stuns  the  sense  ; 

He  knows  not  if  her  lips  be  blue  or  red, 

Nor  of  her  eyes  can  give  true  evidence  : 

Like  murder's  witness  swooning  in  the  court, 

His  sight  falls  senseless  by  its  own  report. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER,  3IJ 

XXXIV. 

Anon  resuming,  it  declares  her  eyes 
Are  tinct  with  azure,  like  two  crystal  wells 
That  drink  the  blue  complexion  of  the  skies, 
Or  pearls  outpeeping  from  their  silvery  shells  : 
Her  polish'd  brow,  it  is  an  ample  plain, 
To  lodge  vast  contemplations  of  the  main. 

XXXV. 

Her  lips  might  corals  seem,  but  corals  near, 
Stray  through  her  hair  like  blossoms  on  a  bower  j 
And  o'er  the  weaker  red  still  domineer, 
And  make  it  pn!e  by  tribute  to  more  power ; 
Her  rounded  cheeks  are  of  still  paler  hue, 
Tpuch'd  by  the  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue, 

XXXVI. 

Thus  he  beholds  her  rocking  on  the  water, 

Under  the  glossy  umbrage  of  her  hair, 
Like  pearly  Amphitrite's  fairest  daughter 
Naiad,  or  Nereid, — or  Syreri  fair, 
Mislodging  music  in  her  pitiless  breast, 
A  nightingale  within  a  falcon's  nest 

XXXVII. 

They  say  there  be  such  maidens  in  the  deep, 
Charming  poor  mariners,  that  all  too  near 
By  mortal  lullabies  fall  dead  asleep. 
As  drowsy  men  are  poison'd  through  the  ear; 
Therefore  Leander's  fears  begin  to  urge, 
This  snowy  swan  is  come  to  sing  his  dirge. 

XXXVI I L 

At  which  he  falls  into  a  deadly  chill, 
And  strains  his  eyes  upon  her  lips  apart ; 
Fearing  each  breath  to  feel  that  prelude  shrill 
Pierce  through  his  marrow,  like  a  breath-blown  dart 
Shot  sudden  from  an  Indian's  hollow  cane, 
With  mortal  venom  fraught,  and  fiery  pain. 

XXXIX. 

Here  then,  poor  wretch,  how  he  begins  to  crowd 
A  thousand  thoughts  within  a  pulse's  space  ; 
There  seem'd  so  brief  a  pause  of  life  allow'd. 
His  mind  strctch'd  universal,  to  embrace 
The  whole  wide  world  in  an  extreme  farewell, — 
A  moment's  musing — but  an  age  to  teU. 


J 14  HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


XL. 

For  there  stood  Hero,  widow'd  at  a  glance, 

The  foreseen  sum  of  many  a  tedious  fact, 

Pale  cheeks,  dim  eyes,  and  wither'd  countenance 

A  wasted  ruin  that  no  wasting  lack'd  ; 

Time's  tragic  consequents  ere  time  began, 

A  world  of  sorrow  in  a  teardrop's  span. 

XLI. 

A  moment's  thinking  is  an  hour  in  words,— 
An  hour  of  words  is  little  for  some  woes  ; 
Too  little  breathing  a  long  life  afiords, 
For  love  to  paint  itself  by  perfect  shows  ; 
Then  let  his  love  and  grief  unwrong'd  lie  dumb^ 
Whilst  Fear,  and  that  it  fears,  together  come. 

XLII. 

As  when  the  crew,  hard  by  some  jutty  cape, 
Struck  pale  and  panick'd  by  the  billows'  roar. 
Lay  by  all  timely  measures  of  escape, 
And  let  their  bark  go  driving  on  the  shore; 
So  fray'd  Leander,  drifting  to  his  wreck, 
Gazing  on  Scylla,  falls  upon  her  neck. 

XLIII. 

For  he  hath  all  forgot  the  swimmer's  art, 
The  rower's  cunning,  and  the  pilot's  skill. 
Letting  his  arms  fall  down  in  languid  part, 
Sway'd  by  the  waves,  and  nothing  by  his  will, 
Till  soon  he  jars  as^ainst  that  glossy  skin. 
Solid  like  glass,  though  seemingly  as  thin. 

XLIV. 

Lo  !  how  she  startles  at  the  warning  shock, 
And  straightway  girds  him  to  her  radiant  breast! 
More  like  his  safe  smooth  harbour  than  his  rock. 
Poor  wretch  !  he  is  so  faint  and  toil-opprest, 
He  cannot  loose  him  from  his  grappling  foe; 
Whether  for  love  or  hate,  she  lets  not  go. 

XLV. 

His  eyes  are  blinded  with  the  sleety  brine, 

His  ears  are  deafen'd  with  the  wildering  noise; 

He  asks  the  purpose  of  her  fell  design, 

But  foamy  waves  choke  up  his  strug::;ling  voice; 

Under  the  ponderous  sea  his  body  dips, 

And  Hero's  name  dies  bubbling  on  his  lips. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  3»J 


XL  VI. 


LooTc  how  a  man  is  lower'd  to  his  grave  ; 
A  yearning  hollow  in  the  green  earth's  lap ; 
So  he  is  sunk  into  the  yawning  wave, 
The  plunging  sea  fills  up  the  watery  gap  ; 
Anon  he  is  all  gone,  and  nothing  seen. 
But  Ukeness  of  green  turf  and  hillocks  green. 


XLVII. 


And  where  he  swam,  the  constant  sun  has  sleeping, 
Over  the  verdant  plain  that  makes  his  bed  ; 
And  all  the  noisy  waves  go  freshly  leaping, 
Like  gamesome  boys  over  the  churchyard  dead  ; 
The  hght  in  vain  keeps  looking  for  his  face, 
Now  screaming  seafowl  settle  in  his  place. 


XLVIII. 


Yet  weep  and  watch  for  him  though  all  in  vain ! 
Ye  moaning  billows,  seek  him  as  ye  wander ! 
Ye  gazing  sunbeams,  look  for  him  again  ! 
Ye  winds,  grow  hoarse  with  asking  for  Leander  1 
Ye  did  but  spare  him  for  more  cruel  rape, 
Sea-storm  and  ruin  in  a  female  shape ! 


XLIX. 


She  says  'tis  love  hath  bribed  her  to  this  deed, 
The  glancing  of  his  eyes  did  so  bewitch  her. 
O  bootless  theft !  unprofitable  meed  ! 
Love's  treasury  is  sack'd,  but  she  no  richer  ; 
The  sparkles  of  his  eyes  are  cold  and  dead, 
And  all  his  golden  looks  are  turn'd  to  lead  I 


She  holds  the  casket,  but  her  simple  hand 
Hath  spill'd  its  dearest  jewel  by  the  way  ; 
She  hath  life's  empty  garment  at  command, 
But  her  own  death  lies  covert  in  the  prey  ; 
As  if  a  thief  should  steal  a  tainted  vest, 
Some  dead  man's  spoil,  and  sicken  of  his  pest; 

LI. 

Now  she  compels  him  to  her  deeps  below, 

Hiding  his  face  beneath  her  plenteous  hair, 

Which  jealously  she  shakes  all  round  her  brow. 

For  dread  of  envy,  though  no  eyes  are  there 

But  seals',  and  all  brute  tenants  of  the  deep, 

Which  heedless  through  the  wave  their  journeys  keep. 


|t6  HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


LII. 

Down  and  still  downward  through  the  duslcy  green 

She  bore  him,  murmuring  with  joycis  haste 

In  too  rash  ignorance,  as  he  had  been 

Born  to  the  texture  of  that  watery  waste  ; 

That  which  she  breathed  and  sigh'd,  the  emerald  wave* 

How  could  her  pleasant  home  become  his  grave ! 

LIII. 

Down  and  still  downward  through  the  dusky  green 
She  bore  her  treasure,  with  a  face  too  nigh 
To  mark  how  life  was  alter'd  in  his  mien, 
Or  how  the  light  grew  torpid  in  his  eye, 
Or  how  his  pearly  breath,  unprison'd  there, 
Flew  up  to  join  the  universal  air. 

LIV, 

She  could  not  miss  the  throbbings  of  his  heart, 
Whilst  her  own  pulse  so  wanton'd  in  its  joy  ; 
She  could  not  guess  he  struggled  to  depart, 
And  when  he  strove  no  more,  the  hapless  boy  I 
She  reao  his  mortal  stillness  for  content. 
Feeling  no  fear  where  only  love  was  meant. 

LV. 

Soon  she  alights  upon  her  ocean-floor, 

And  straight  unyokes  her  arms  from  her  fair  priac  ; 

Then  on  his  lovely  face  begins  to  pore, 

As  if  to  glut  her  soul  ; — her  hungry  eyes 

Have  grown  so  jealous  of  her  arms'  delight ; 

It  seems  he  hath  no  other  sense  but  sight. 

LVI. 

But  O  sad  marvel !  O  most  bitter  strange  ! 
What  dismal  magic  makes  his  cheek  so  pale, 
Why  will  he  not  embrace, — why  not  exchange 
Her  kindly  kisses  ; — wherefore  not  exhale 
Some  odorous  message  from  life's  ruby  gates, 
Where  she  his  first  sweet  embassy  awaits  ? 

LVII. 

Her  eyes,  poor  watchers,  fix'd  upon  his  looks, 
Are  grappled  with  a  wonder  near  to  grief, 
As  one  who  pores  on  undecipher'd  books, 
Strains  vain  surmise,  and  dodges  with  belief; 
So  she  keeps  gazing  with  a  mazy  tliou:4ht, 
Framingf  a  thousand  doubts  that  end  in  nought. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER,  317 


LVIII. 


Too  stern  inscription  for  a  page  so  young, 
The  dark  translation  of  his  look  was  Death  I 
But  Death  was  written  in  an  alien  tongue, 
And  Learning  was  not  by  to  give  it  breath  ; 
So  one  deep  woe  sleeps  buried  in  its  seal, 
Which  Time,  untimely,  hasteth  to  reveal 


Lix. 


Meanwhile  she  sits  unconscious  of  her  hap, 
Nursing  Death's  marble  effigy,  which  there 
With  heavy  head  lies  pillow'd  in  her  lap, 
And  elbows  all  unhinged  ; — his  sleeking  hair 
Creeps  o'er  her  knees,  and  settles  where  his  hand 
Leans  with  lax  fingers  crook'd  against  the  sand  ; 


LX. 


And  there  lies  spread  in  many  an  oozy  trail, 
Like  glossy  weeds  hung  from  a  chalky  base, 
That  shows  no  whiter  than  his  hxow  is  pale  ; 
So  soon  the  wintry  death  had  bleach'd  his  face 
Into  cold  marble,— with  blue  chilly  shades, 
Showing  wherein  the  freezy  blood  pervades. 


LXI. 

And  o'er  his  steadfast  cheek  a  furrow'd  pain 
Hath  set,  and  stiffen'd  like  a  storm  in  ice. 
Showing  by  drooping  lines  the  deadly  strain 
Of  mortal  anguish  ;— yet  you  might  gaze  twice 
Ere  Death  it  seem'd,  and  not  his  cousin,  Sleep, 
That  through  those  creviced  lids  did  underpeep. 

LXII. 

But  all  that  tender  bloom  about  his  eyes. 

Is  Death's  own  violets,  which  his  utmost  rite 

It  is  to  scatter  when  the  red  rose  dies  ; 

For  blue  is  chilly,  and  akin  to  white  : 

Also  he  leaves  some  tinges  on  his  lips, 

Which  he  hath  kiss'd  with  such  cold  frosty  nips. 

LXI  1 1. 

"Surely,"  quoth  she,  "he  sleeps,  the  senseless  thing, 
Oppress'd  and  faint  with  toiling  in  the  stream  1 " 
Therefore  she  will  not  mar  his  rest,  but  sing 
So  low,  her  tune  shall  mingle  with  his  dream ; 
Meanwhile,  her  lily  fingers  task  to  twine 
His  uncrispt  locks  uncurling  in  the  brme. 


lit  HERO  AND  LE/NDER, 


LXIV. 


"  O  lovely  boy  ! " — thus  she  attuned  her  voice, — 
"  Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  a  sea-maid's  home ; 
My  love-mate  thou  shalt  be,  and  true  heart's  choice; 
How  have  I  long'd  such  a  twin-self  should  come, — 
A  lonely  thmg,  till  this  sweet  chance  befell, 
My  heart  kept  sighing  like  a  hollow  shell. 


LXV. 


"  Here  thou  shalt  live,  beneath  this  secret  dome, 
An  ocean  bower,  defended  by  the  shade 
Of  quiet  waters  ;  a  cool  emerald  gloom 
To  lap  thee  all  about.     Nay,  be  not  fra/d, 
Those  are  but  shady  fishes  that  sail  by 
Like  antic  clouds  across  my  liquid  sky  1 


LXVI. 


**  Look  how  the  sunbeam  burns  upon  their  scales, 
And  shows  rich  glimpses  of  their  Tyrian  skins  ; 
They  flash  small  lightnings  from  their  vi-orous  tails, 
And  wmking  stars  are  kindled  at  their  fins  ; 
These  shall  divert  thee  in  thy  weariest  mood, 
And  seek  thy  hand  for  gamesomeness  and  food. 


LXVII. 

"*  Lo  !  those  green  pretty  leaves  with  tassel  bells, 
My  /lowrets  those,  that  never  pine  for  drouth  ; 
Myself  did  plant  them  in  the  dappled  shells 
That  drink  the  wave  with  such  a  rosy  mouth, — _ 
Pearls  wouldst  thou  have  beside?  crystals  to  shine? 
I  had  such  treasures  once,— now  they  are  thine. 

LXVI  1 1. 

"  Now,  lay  thine  ear  against  this  golden  sand, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  the  music  of  tne  sea. 
Those  hollow  tunes  it  plays  a;4ainst  the  land, — 
Is't  not  a  rich  and  wondrous  melody  ? 
I  have  lain  hours,  and  fancied  in  its  tone 
I  heard  the  languages  of  ages  gone  I 

LXIX. 

**  I  too  can  sing  when  it  shall  please  thy  choice, 
And  breathe  soft  tunes  through  a  melodious  shell, 
Though  heretofore  I  have  but  set  my  voice 
To  some  long  sighs,  grief  harmonised,  to  tell 
How  desolate  I  fared  ;— but  this  sweet  change 
Will  add  new  notes  of  gladness  to  my  range  I 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  319 


LXX. 

**  Or  bid  me  speak,  and  I  will  tell  thee  tales 
"Which  I  have  framed  out  of  the  noise  of  waves  ; 
Ere  now  I  have  communed  with  senseless  gales, 
And  held  vain  colloquies  with  barren  caves  ; 
But  I  could  talk  to  thee  whole  days  and  days, 
Only  to  word  my  love  a  thousand  ways. 

LXXI. 

"  But  if  thy  lips  will  bless  me  with  their  speech, 

Then  ope,  sweet  oracles  !  and  I'll  be  mute  ; 

I  was  born  ignorant  for  thee  to  teach, 

Nay  all  love's  lore  to  thy  dear  looks  impute  ; 

Then  ope  thine  eyes,  fair  teachers,  by  whose  light 

I  saw  to  give  away  my  heart  aright  1 " 

LXXII. 

But  cold  and  deaf  the  sullen  creature  lies, 
Over  her  knees,  and  with  concealing  clay, 
Like  hoarding  Avarice  locks  up  his  eyes, 
And  leaves  her  w^orld  impoverish'd  of  day  ; 
Then  at  his  cruel  lips  she  bends  to  plead, 
But  there  the  door  is  closed  against  her  need. 

LXXIIL 

Surely  he  sleeps, — so  her  false  wits  infer  1 
Alas  !  poor  slu'jgard,  ne'er  to  wake  again  1 
Surely  he  sleeps,  yet  without  any  stir 
That  might  denote  a  vi^^^  in  his  brain  ; 
Or  if  he  does  not  sleep,  he  feigns  too  long, — 
Twice  she  hath  reach'd  the  ending  of  her  song. 

LXX  IV. 

Therefore  'tis  time,  she  tells  him,  to  uncover 
Those  radiant  jesters,  and  disperse  her  fears, 
"Whereby  her  April  face  is  shaded  over. 
Like  rainy  clouds  just  ripe  for  showering  tears  J 
Nay,  if  he  will  not  wake,  so  poor  she  gets, 
Herself  must  rob  those  lock'd  up  cabinets. 

LXXV. 

With  that  she  stoops  above  his  brow,  and  bid» 
Her  busy  hands  forsake  his  tangled  hair. 
And  tenderly  lift  up  those  coffer-lids, 
That  she  may  gaze  upon  the  jewels  there, 
Like  babes  that  pluck  an  early  bud  apart, 
To  know  the  dainty  colour  of  its  heart. 


S30  HERO  AND  LEANDER, 


LXXVl. 

Now,  picture  one,  soft  creeping^  to  a  bed, 
"Who  slowly  parts  the  fringe-hung  canopies, 
And  then  starts  back  to  find  the  sleeper  dead  ; 
So  she  looks  in  on  his  uncover'd  eyes, 
And  seeing  all  within  so  drear  and  dark, 
Her  own  bright  soul  dies  in  her  like  a  spark, 

LXXVII. 

Backward  she  falls,  like  a  pale  prophetess, 

Under  the  swoon  of  holy  divination  : 

And  what  had  all  surpass'd  her  simple  guess, 

She  now  resolves  in  this  dark  revelation  ; 

Death's  very  mystery, — oblivious  death  : — 

Long  sleep, — deep  night,  and  an  entranced  breatlu 

LXXVIII. 

Yet  life,  though  wounded  sore,  not  wholly  slain, 
Merely  obscured,  and  not  extinguish'd,  lies  ; 
Her  breath,  that  stood  at  ebb,  soon  flows  again. 
Heaving  her  hollow  breast  with  heavy  sighs. 
And  light  comes  in,  and  kindles  up  the  gloom. 
To  light  her  spirit  from  its  transient  tomb. 

LXXIX. 

Then  like  the  sun,  awaken'd  at  new  dawn. 
With  pale,  bewilder'd  face  she  peers  about. 
And  spies  blurr'd  images  obscurely  drawn. 
Uncertain  shadows  in  a  haze  of  doubt ; 
But  her  true  grief  grows  shapely  by  degrees, 
A  perish'd  creature  lying  on  her  knees. 

LXXX. 

And  now  she  knows  how  that  old  Murther  prey^ 
Whose  quarry  on  her  lap  lies  newly  slain  ; 
How  he  roams  all  abroad  and  grimly  slays, 
Like  a  lean  tiger  in  Love's  own  domain  ; 
Parting  fond  mates, — and  oft  in  flowery  lawnt 
Bereaves  mild  mothers  of  their  milky  fawns. 

LXXXI. 

O  too  dear  knowledge  !  O  pernicious  earning  I 
Foul  curse  engraven  upon  beauty's  page  ! 
Even  now  the  sorrow  of  that  deadly  learning 
Ploughs  up  her  brow  like  an  untimely  age, 
And  on  her  cheek  stamps  verdict  of  death's  truth. 
By  canker  blights  upon  the  bud  of  youth  ! 


HERO  AND  LEANDER,  }*! 


LXXXII. 


For  as  unwholesome  winds  decay  the  leaf,  . 
So  her  cheeks'  rose  is  perish'd  by  her  sii^hs, 
And  withers  in  the  sickly  breath  of  grief; 
Whilst  unacquainted  rheum  bedims  her  eyes, 
Tears,  virgin  tears,  the  first  that  ever  leapt 
From  those  young  lids,  now  plentifully  wept. 


LXXXIII. 

Whence  being  shed,  the  liquid  crystalline 
Drops  straightway  down,  refusing  to  partake 
In  gross  admijfture  with  the  baser  brine. 
But  shrinks  and  hardens  into  pearls  opaque, 
Hereafter  to  be  worn  on  arms  and  ears  ; 
So  one  maid's  trophy  is  another's  tears  ! 

LXXXIV. 

«  O  foul  Arch-Shadow  !  thou  old  cloud  of  Night  I 
(Thus  in  her  frenzy  she  began  to  wail), 
Thou  blank  oblivion — blotter  out  of  light, 
Life's  ruthless  murderer,  and  dear  love's  bale  ! 
Why  hast  thou  left  thy  havoc  incomplete, 
Leaving  me  here,  and  slaying  the  more  sweet  ? 

LXXXV. 

**  Lo !  what  a  lovely  ruin  thou  hast  made, 
Alas,  alas !  thou  hast  no  eyes  to  see. 
And  blindly  slew'st  him  in  misguided  shade. 
Would  I  had  lent  my  doting  sense  to  thee  ! 
But  now  I  turn  to  thee,  a  willing  mark. 
Thine  arrows  miss  me  in  the  aimless  dark  I 

LXXXVI. 

«  O  doubly  cruel ! — twice  misdoing  spite. 

But  I  will  guide  thee  with  my  helpmg  eyes, 

Or  walk  the  wide  world  through,  devoid  of  sight, 

Yet  thou  shall  know  me  by  my  many  sighs. 

Nay,  then  thou  shouldst  have  spared  my  rose,  false  Death 

And  known  Love's  flower  by  smelling  his  sweet  breath ; 

LXXXVII. 

«  Or,  when  thy  furious  rage  was  round  him  dealing, 
Love  should  have  grown  from  touching  of  his  skin, 
But  like  cold  marble  thou  art  all  unfeeling, 
And  hast  no  ruddy  springs  of  warmth  within, 
And  being  but  a  shape  of  freezing  bone. 
Thy  touching  only  turn'd  my  love  to  stone  ! 

X 


BM 


HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


LXXXVIII. 

"And  here,  alas  !  he  lies  across  my  knees. 
With  cheeks  still  colder  than  the  stilly  wave, 
The  li;^'ht  beneath  his  eyelids  seems  to  freeze, 
Here  then,  since  Love  is  dead  and  lacks  a  grave^ 
Oh,  come  and  dig  it  in  my  sad  heart's  core — 
That  wound  will  bring  a  balsam  for  its  sore  ! 

LXXXIX. 

"For  art  thou  not  a  sleep  where  sense  of  ill 
Lies  stingless,  hke  a  sense  benumb'd  with  cold, 
Healing  all  hurts  only  with  sleep's  good-will 
So  shall  I  slumber,  and  perchance  behold 
My  living  love  in  dreams,— O  happy  night. 
That  lets  me  company  his  banish'd  spright ! 

XC 

**  O  poppy  Death  ! — sweet  poisoner  of  sleep  ! 
Where  shall  I  seek  for  thee,  oblivious  drug, 
That  I  may  steep  thee  in  my  drink,  and  creep 
Out  of  life's  coil.     Look,  Idol  !  how  1  hug 
Thy  dainty  image  in  this  strict  embrace, 
And  kiss  this  clay-cold  model  of  thy  face  ! 

xci. 

"Put  out,  put  out  these  sun-consuming  lamps, 
I  do  but  read  my  sorrows  by  their  shine  ; 
Oh,  come  and  quench  them  with  thy  oozy  damps. 
And  let  my  darkness  intermix  with  thine  ; 
Since  love  is  blinded,  wherefore  should  I  see, 
Now  love  is  death, — death  will  be  love  to  me  I 

XCII. 

"Away,  away,  this  vain  complaining  breath, 
It  does  but  stir  the  troubles  that  1  weep  ; 
Let  it  be  hush'd  and  quieted,  sweet  Death; 
The  wind  must  settle  ere  the  wave  can  sleep,— 
Since  love  is  silent,  I  would  fain  be  mute, 
O  Death,  be  gracious  to  my  dying  suit  1" 

XCIII. 

Thus  far  she  pleads,  but  pleading  nought  avails  her. 
For  Death,  her  sullen  burthen,  deigns  no  heed  ; 
Then  with  dumb  craving  arms,  since  darkness  fails  hef; 
She  prays  to  Heaven's  f.iir  light,  as  if  her  need 
Inspired  her  there  were  gods  to  pity  pain. 
Or  end  it, — but  she  lifts  her  arms  in  vain  1 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  313 


XCIV. 

Poor  gilded  Grief !  the  subtle  light  by  this 
With  mazy  gold  creeps  through  her  watery  mine^ 
And,  diving  downward  through  the  green  abyss, 
Lights  up  her  palace  with  an  amber  shine  ; 
There,  fallmg  on  her  arms, — the  crystal  skin 
Reveals  the  ruby  tide  that  fares  within. 

XCV. 

Look  how  the  fulsome  beam  would  hang  a  glory 
On  her  dark  hair,  but  the  dark  hairs  repel  it ; 
Look  how  the  perjured  glow  suborns  a  story 
On  her  pale  lips,  but  lips  refuse  to  tell  it ; 
Grief  will  not  swerve  from  grief,  however  told 
On  coral  lips,  or  character'd  in  gold  ; 

XCVI. 

Or  else,  thou  maid  !  safe  anchor'd  on  Love's  neck, 

Listing  the  hapless  doom  of  young  L^ander, 
Thou  wouldst  not  shed  a  tear  for  that  old  wreck, 
Sitting  secure  where  no  wild  surges  wander; 
Whereas  the  woe  moves  on  with  tragic  pace, 
And  shows  its  sad  reflection  in  thy  face. 

XCVII. 

Thus  having  travell'd  on,  and  track'd  the  tale, 
Like  the  due  course  of  an  old  bas-relief, 
Where  Tragedy  pursues  her  progress  pale, 
Brood  here  awhile  upon  that  sea-maid's  grief, 
And  take  a  deeper  imprint  from  the  frieze 
Of  that  young  Fate,  with  Death  upon  her  knees. 

XCVIII. 

Then  whilst  the  melancholy  muse  withal 
Resumes  her  music  in  a  sadder  tone, 
Meanwhile  the  sunbeam  strikes  upon  the  wall, 
Conceive  that  lovely  siren  to  live  on. 
Even  as  Hope  whisper'd  the  Promethean  light 
Would  kindle  up  the  dead  Leander's  spright. 

XCIX. 

"'Tis  light,"  she  says,  "  that  feeds  the  glittering  star% 
And  those  were  stars  set  in  his  heavenly  brow  ; 
But  this  salt  cloud,  this  cold  sea-vapour,  mars 
Their  radiant  breathing,  and  obscures  them  now, 
Therefore  I'll  lay  him  in  the  clear  blue  air. 
And  see  how  these  dull  orbs  will  kindle  there." 


324  HERO  AND  LEANDER. 


Swiftly  as  dolphins  glide,  or  swifter  yet, 
With  dead  Leander  in  her  fond  amis'  fold, 
She  cleaves  the  meshes  of  that  radiant  net 
The  sun  hath  twined  above  of  liquid  gold, 
Nor  slacks  till,  on  the  margin  of  the  land, 
She  lays  his  body  on  the  glowing  sand. 

CL 

There,  like  a  pearly  waif,  just  past  the  reach 
Of  foamy  billows,  he  lies  cast.     Just  then, 
Some  listless  fishers,  straying  down  the  beach, 
Spy  out  this  wonder.     Thence  the  curious  men. 
Low  crouching,  creep  into  a  thicket  brake. 
And  watch  her  doings  till  their  rude  hearts  ache. 

Cii. 

First  she  begins  to  chafe  him  till  she  faints, 
Then  falls  upon  his  mouth  with  kisses  many, 
And  sometimes  pauses  in  her  own  complaints 
To  list  his  breathing,  but  there  is  not  any, — 
Then  looks  into  his  eyes,  where  no  li:^ht  duells,— 
Light  makes  no  pictures  in  such  muddy  wells. 

cm. 

The  hot  sun  parches  his  discover'd  eyes, 

The  hot  sun  beats  on  his  discolour'd  limbs. 

The  sand  is  oozy  whereupon  he  lies, 

Soiling  his  fairness  ; — then  away  she  swims, 

Meaning  to  gather  him  a  daintier  bed, 

Plucking  the  cool  fresh  weeds,  brown,  green,  and  red. 

CIV. 

But,  simple-witted  thief,  while  she  dives  under, 
Another  robs  her  of  her  amorous  theft; 
The  ambush'd  fishermen  creep  forth  to  plunder 
And  steal  the  unwatch'd  treasure  she  has  left ; 
Only  his  void  impression  dints  the  sands, — 
Leander  is  purloin'd  by  stealthy  hands  1 

cv. 

Lo  !  how  she  shudders  off  the  beaded  wave  ! 
Like  Grief  all  over  tears,  and  senseless  falls, 
His  void  imprint  seems  hollow'd  for  her  grave, 
Then,  rising  on  her  knees,  looks  round  and  calls 
On  Hero!   Hero!  having  learn'd  this  name 
Of  his  last  breath,  she  calls  him  by  the  same. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  fif 

CVI. 

Then  with  her  frantic  hands  she  rends  her  hairs, 
And  casts  them  forth,  sad  keepsakes,  to  the  wind, 
As  if  in  plucking  those  she  pluck'd  her  cares; 
But  grief  lies  deeper,  and  remains  behind 
Like  a  barb'd  arrow,  rankling  in  her  brain, 
Turning  her  very  thoughts  to  throbs  of  pain. 

CVI  I. 

Anon  her  tangled  locks  are  left  alone. 
And  down  upon  the  sand  she  meekly  sits, 
Hard  by  the  foam  as  humble  as  a  stone, 
Like  an  enchanted  maid  beside  her  wits, 
That  ponders  with  a  look  serene  and  tragic, 
Stunn'd  by  the  mighty  mystery  of  magic 

CVlll. 

Or  think  of  Ariadne's  utter  trance, 

Crazed  by  the  flight  of  that  disloyal  traitor,, 

Who  left  her  gazing  on  the  green  expanse 

That  swallow'd  up  his  track, — yet  this  would  mate  her. 

Even  in  the  cloudy  summit  of  her  woe, 

When  o'er  the  far  sea-brim  she  saw  him  go. 

CIX. 

For  even  so  she  bows,  and  bends  her  gaze 

O'er  the  eternal  waste,  as  if  to  sum 

Its  waves  by  weary  thousands  all  her  days, 

Dismally  doom'd  !  meanwhile  the  billows  come^ 

And  coldly  dabble  with  her  quiet  feet, 

Like  any  bleaching  stones  they  wont  to  greet ; 

ex. 

And  thence  into  her  lap  have  boldly  sprung, 

Washing  her  weedy  tresses  to  and  fro, 

That  round  her  crouching  knees  have  darkly  hung, 

But  she  sits  careless  of  waves'  ebb  and  flow. 

Like  a  lone  beacon  on  a  desert  coast. 

Showing  where  all  her  hope  was  wreck'd  and  lost. 

CXI. 

Yet  whether  in  the  sea  or  vaulted  sky, 
She  knoweth  not  her  love's  abrupt  resort, 
So  like  a  shape  of  dreams  he  left  her  eye, 
Winking  with  doubt.     Meanwhile  the  churls'  report 
Has  throng'd  the  beach  with  many  a  curious  face, 
That  peeps  upon  her  from  its  hiding-place. 


Sa6  HERO  AND  LEANDER, 


CXII. 

And  here  a  head,  and  there  a  brow  half  seen. 

Dodges  behind  a  rock.     Here  on  his  hands 

A  mariner  his  crumpled  cheeks  doth  lean 

Over  a  rugged  cresi.     Another  stands, 

Holding  his  harmful  arrow  at  the  head, 

Still  check'd  by  human  caution  and  strange  dread. 

CXIII. 

One  stops  his  ears, — another  close  beholder 

Whispers  unto  the  next  his  grave  surmise  ; 

This  crouches  down, — and  just  above  his  shoulder^ 

A  woman's  pity  saddens  in  her  eyes, 

And  prompts  her  to  befriend  that  lonely  grief, 

With  all  sweet  helps  of  sisterly  relief, 

CXIV. 

And  down  the  sunny  beach  she  paces  slowly;^ 
With  many  doubtful  pauses  by  ths  way  ; 
Grief  hath  an  influence  so  hush'd  and  holy, — 
Making  her  twice  attempt,  ere  she  can  lay 
Her  hand  upon  that  sea-maid's  shoulder  white, 
Which  makes  her  startle  up  in  wild  affright, 

cxv. 

And,  like  a  seal,  she  leaps  into  the  wave 
That  drowns  the  shrill  remainder  of  her  scream  ; 
Anon  the  sea  fills  up  the  watery  cave, 
And  seals  her  exit  with  a  foamy  seam, — 
Leaving  those  baffled  gazers  on  the  beach. 
Turning  in  uncouth  wonder  each  to  each. 

CXVI. 

Some  watch,  some  call,  some  see  her  head  emerge 
Wherever  a  brown  weed  falls  through  the  foam : 
Some  point  to  white  eruptions  of  the  surge  ; — 
But  she  is  vanish'd  to  her  shady  home, 
Under  the  deep,  inscrutable, — and  there 
Weeps  in  a  midnight  made  of  her  own  hair. 

CXVII. 

Now  here  the  sighing  winds,  before  unheard, 
Forth  from  their  cloudy  caves  begin  to  blow. 
Till  all  the  surface  of  the  deep  is  stirr'd. 
Like  to  the  panting  grief  it  hides  below  ; 
And  heaven  is  cover'd  witli  a  stormy  rack. 
Soiling  the  waters  with  its  inkv  black. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER.  jaj 


CXVIII. 

The  screamins^  fowl  resigns  her  finny  prey, 
And  labours  shoreward  with  a  bending  wing. 
Rowing  against  the  wind  her  toilsome  way  ; 
Me  inwhile,  the  curling  billows  chafe,  and  fling 
Their  dewy  frost  still  further  on  the  stones, 
TLat  answer  to  the  wind  with  hollow  groans. 

CXIX. 

And  here  and  there  a  fisher's  far-off  bark 
Flies  with  the  sun's  last  glimpse  upon  its  sail. 
Like  a  bright  flame  amid  the  waters  dark, 
Watch'd  with  the  hope  and  fear  of  maidens  pale 
And  anxious  mothers,  that  upturn  their  brows, 
Freighting  the  gusty  wind  with  frequent  vows  ; 

cxx. 

For  that  the  horrid  deep  has  no  sure  track 
To  guide  love  safe  into  his  homelv  haven. 
And  lo  !  the  storm  grows  blacker  in  its  wrath, 
O'er  the  dark  billow  brooding  like  a  raven. 
That  bodes  of  death  and  widows'  sorrowing. 
Under  the  dusky  covert  of  his  wing. 

CXXI. 

And  so  day  ended.     But  no  vesper  spark 
Hung  forth  its  heavenly  sign  ;  bi!t  sheets  of  flame 
Play'd  round  the  savage  features  of  the  dark. 
Making  night  horrible.     That  night,  there  came 
A  weeping  maiden  to  high  Sestos'  steep, 
And  tore  her  hair  and  gazed  upon  the  deep. 

cxxri. 

And  waved  aloft  her  bright  and  ruddy  torch, 
Whose  flame  the  boastful  wind  so  rudely  fann'd, 
That  oft  it  would  recoil,  and  basely  scorch 
The  tender  covert  of  her  sheltering  hand, 
Which  \  et,  for  love's  dear  sake,  disdain'd  retire. 
And,  like  a  glorying  martyr,  braved  the  fire. 

CXXIII. 

For  that  was  love's  own  sign  and  beacon  guide 
Across  the  Hellespont's  wide  weary  space. 
Wherein  he  nightly  struggled  with  the  tide. 
Look  what  a  red  it  forges  on  her  face. 
As  if  she  blush'd  at  holding  such  a  light. 
Even  in  the  unseen  presence  of  the  night  I 


|28  HERO  AND  LEANDER, 

CXXIV. 

Whereas  her  trasjic  cheek  is  truly  pale, 

And  colder  than  the  rude  and  ruffian  air 

That  howls  into  her  ear  a  horrid  tale 

Of  storm,  and  wreck,  and  uttermost  despair, 

Saying,  "  Leander  floats  amid  the  surge, 

And  those  are  dismal  waves  that  sing  his  dirge.* 

cxxv. 

And  hark  ! — a  grieving  voice,  trembling  and  faint, 
Blends  with  the  hollow  sobbmgs  of  the  sea  ; 
Like  the  sad  music  of  a  siren's  plaint, 
But  shriller  than  Leander's  voice  should  be, 
Unless  the  wintry  death  had  changed  its  tone,— 
Wherefore  she  thinks  she  hears  his  spirit  moan. 

cxxvi. 

For  now,  upon  each  brief  and  breathless  pause, 
Made  by  the  raging  winds,  it  plainly  calls, 
On  Hero  !  Hero  ! — whereupon  she  draws 
Close  to  the  dizzy  brink,  that  ne'er  appals 
Her  brave  and  constant  spirit  to  recoil. 
However  the  wild  billows  toss  and  toiL 

CXXVII. 

"Oh  !  dost  thou  live  under  the  deep,  deep  sea? 
I  thought  such  love  as  thine  could  never  die  ; 
If  thou  hast  gain'd  an  immortality 
From  the  kind  pitying  Sea-god,  so  will  I  ; 
And  this  false  cruel  tide,  that  used  to  sever 
Our  hearts,  shall  be  our  common  home  for  ever  I 

CXXVI  1 1. 

"There  we  will  sit  and  sport  upon  one  billow, 
And  sing  our  ocean  ditties  all  the  day. 
And  lie  together  on  the  same  green  pillow, 
That  curls  above  us  with  its  dewy  spray  ; 
And  ever  in  one  presence  live  and  dwell, 
Like  two  twin  pearls  within  the  selfsame  shell." 

CXXIX. 

One  moment  then  upon  the  dizzy  verge 

She  stands,  with  face  upturn'd  against  the  sky; 

A  moment  more  upon  the  foamy  surge 

She  gazes  with  a  calm,  despairing  eye, 

Feeling  that  awful  pause  of  blood  and  breath 

Which  life  endures  when  it  confronts  with  death ;- 


LYCUS,   THE  CENTAUR.  Jp% 


CXXX. 

Then  from  the  giddy  steep  she  madly  springs, 
Grasping  her  maiden  robes,  that  vainly  kept 
Panting  abroad,  Uke  unavailing  wings, 
To  save  her  from  her  death.— The  Sea-maid  wept, 
And  in  a  crystal  cave  her  corse  enshrined, — 
No  meaner  sepulchre  should  Hero  find  1 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR. 
nam  an  unrolled  manuscript  of  apollonius  curius. 


TO  J.  H.  REYNOLDS,  ESQ. 

My    Dear    Reynolds,— You   will    remember  "Lycus."— It   was 

written  in  the  pleasant  springtime  of  our  friendship,  and  I  am  glad 
to  maintain  that  association  by  connecting  your  name  with  the  poem. 
It  will  gratify  me  to  find  that  you  regard  it  with  the  old  partiality  for 
the  writings  of  each  other  which  prevailed  in  those  days.  For  my 
own  sake,  I  must  regret  that  your  pen  goes  now  into  far  other  records 
than  those  which  used  to  delight  me.— Your  true  Friend  and  Brother, 

T.  Hood. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Lycus,  detained  by  Circe  in  her  magical  dominion,  is  beloved  by  a  Water- 
Nymph,  who,  desiring  to  render  him  immortal,  has  recourse  to  the  Sor- 
ceress. Circe  gives  her  an  incantation  to  pronounce,  which  should  turn 
Lycus  into  a  horse  ;  but  the  horrible  effect  of  the  charm  causing  her  tO 
break  off  in  the  midst,  he  becomes  a  Centaur. 

Who  hath  ever  been  lured  and  bound  by  a  spell 

To  wander,  fore-doom'd,  in  that  circle  of  hell 

Where  Witchery  works  with  her  will  like  a  god,— 

Works  more  than  the  wonders  of  time  at  a  nod, — 

At  a  word,— at  a  touch, — at  a  flash  of  the  eye,— - 

But  each  form  is  a  cheat,  and  each  sdlind  is  a  lie. 

Things  born  of  a  wish — to  endure  for  a  thought, 

Or  last  for  long  ages — to  vanish  to  nought. 

Or  put  on  new  semblance?     O  Jove  !  I  had  given 

The  throne  of  a  kingdom  to  know  if  that  heaven 

And  the  earth  and  its  streams  were  of  Circe,  or  whether 

They  kept  the  world's  birthday  and  brighten'd  together  ! 

For  I  loved  them  in  terror,  and  constantly  dreaded 

That  the  earth  where  I  trod,  and  the  cave  where  I  bedded. 


J30  LYCUS,   THE  CENTAUR. 

The  face  I  might  dote  on,  should  live  out  the  lease 

Of  the  charm  that  created,  and  suddenly  cease  : 

\nd  I  gave  me  to  slumber  as  if  from  one  dream 

To  another — each  horrid— and  drank  of  the  stream 

Like  a  first  taste  of  blood,  lest  as  water  I  quaff'd 

Swift  poison,  and  never  should  breathe  from  the  draught,-— 

Such  drink  as  her  own  momrch  husband  drain'd  up 

When  he  pledged  her,  and  Fate  closed  his  eyes  in  the  cup. 

And  I  pluck'd  of  the  fruit  with  held  breath,  and  a  fear 

That  the  branch  would  start  back  and  scream  out  in  my  ear  ; 

For  once,  at  my  suppcring,  I  pluck'd  in  the  dusk 

An  apple,  juice-gushing  and  fragrant  of  niubk  ; 

But  by  daylight  my  fin^;ers  were  crimson'd  with  gore, 

And  the  half-eaten  fragment  was  flesh  at  the  core  : 

And  once — only  once— for  the  love  of  its  blush, 

I  broke  a  bloom  bough,  but  there  came  such  a  gush 

On  my  hand,  that  it  fainted  away  in  weak  fright. 

While  the  leaf-hidden  woodpecker  shriek'd  at  the  sight ; 

And  oh  !  such  an  a'_;ony  thrill'd  in  that  note, 

That  my  soul,  startling  up,  beat  its  wings  in  my  throat, 

As  it  long'd  to  be  free  of  a  body  whose  hand 

Was  doom'd  to  work  torments  a  Fury  had  plann'd  I 

There  I  stood  without  stir,  yet  how  willing  to  flee, 
As  if  rooted  and  horror-turn'd  into  a  tree, — 
Oh,  for  innocent  death  ! — and  to  suddenly  win  it, 
I  drank  of  the  stream,  but  no  poison  was  in  it  ; 
I  plunged  in  its  waters,  but  ere  I  could  sink, 
Some  invisible  fate  puU'd  me  back  to  the  brink  ; 
I  sprang  from  the  rock,  from  its  pinnacle  height, 
But  fell  on  the  grass  with  a  grasshopper's  flight ; 
I  ran  at  my  fears — they  were  fears  and  no  more. 
For  the  bear  would  not  mangle  my  limbs,  nor  the  boar, 
But  moan'd, — all  their  brutalized  flesh  could  not  smothel 
The  horrible  truth — we  were  kin  to  each  other  ! 

They  were  mournfully  gentle,  and  group'd  for  relief. 
All  foes  in  their  skin,  but  all  friends  in  their  grief : 
The  leopard  was  there, — baby-mild  in  its  feature  ; 
And  the  tiger,  black  barr'd,  with  the  gaze  of  a  creature 
That  knew  gentle  pity  ;  the  bristle-back'd  boar 
His  innocent  tusks  stain'd  with  mulberry  gore  ; 
And  the  laughir>g  hyena — but  laughing  no  more  ; 
And  the  snake,  not  with  magical  orbs  to  devise 
Strange  death,  but  with  woman's  attraction  of  eyes  ; 
The  tall  ugly  ape,  that  still  bore  a  dim  shine 
Through  his  hairy  eclipse  of  a  manhood  divine  ; 
And  the  elephant  stately,  with  more  than  its  reason, 
How  thoughtful  in  sadness  !  but  this  is  no  season 
To  reckon  them  up  from  the  lag-bellied  toad 
To  the  mammoth,  whose  sobs  shook  his  ponderous  load. 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  33! 

There  were  woes  of  all  shapes,  wretched  forms  when  I  came^ 
That  hung  down  their  heads  with  a  human-Hke  shame  ; 
Tiie  elephant  hid  in  the  boughs,  and  the  bear 
Shed  over  his  eyes  the  dark  veil  of  his  hair  ; 
And  the  womanly  soul,  turning  sick  with  disgust, 
Tried  to  vomit  herself  from  her  serpentine  crust  ; 
While  all  groan'd  their  groans  into  one  at  their  lot, 
As  I  brought  them  the  image  of  what  they  were  not. 

Then  rose  a  wild  sound  of  the  human  voice  choking 
Through  vile  brutal  organs — low  tremulous  croaking, 
Cries  swallow'd  abruptly — deep  animal  tones, 
Attuned  to  strange  passion,  and  fuU-utter'd  groans  ; 
All  shuddering  weaker,  till  hush'd  in  a  pause 
Of  tongues  in  mute  motion  and  wide-yearning  jaws  ; 
And  I  guess'd  that  those  horrors  were  meant  to  tell  o'er 
The  tale  of  their  woes  ;  but  the  silence  told  more 
That  writhed  on  their  tongues  ;  and  I  knelt  on  the  sod, 
And  pray'd  with  my  voice  to  the  cloud-stirring  God, 
For  the  sad  congregation  of  supplicants  there, 
That  upturn'd  to  His  heaven  brute  faces  of  prayer  ; 
And  I  ceased,  and  they  utter'd  a  moaning  so  deep. 
That  I  wept  for  my  heart-ease, — but  they  could  not  weep, 
And  gazed  with  red  eyeballs,  all  wistfully  dry, 
At  the  comfort  of  tears  in  a  stag's  human  eye. 
Then  I  motion'd  them  round,  and,  to  soothe  their  distress, 
I  caress'd,  and  they  bent  them  to  meet  my  caress. 
Their  necks  to  my  arm,  and  their  heads  to  my  palm. 
And  with  poor  grateful  eyes  suffer'd  meekly  and  calm 
Those  tokens  of  kindness,  withheld  by  hard  fate 
From  returns  that  might  chill  the  warm  pity  to  hate  ; 
So  they  passively  bow'd — save  the  serpent,  that  leapt 
To  my  breast  like  a  sister,  and  pressingly  crept 
In  embrace  of  my  neck,  and  with  close  kisses  blister'd 
My  lips  in  rash  love, — then  drew  backward,  and  glister'd 
Her  eyes  in  my  face,  and  loud  hissing  affright, 
Dropt  down,  and  swift  started  away  from  my  sight  1 

This  sorrow  was  theirs,  but  thrice  wretched  my  lot, 
Turn'd  brute  in  my  soul,  though  my  body  was  not 
When  I  fled  from  the  sorrow  of  womanly  faces. 
That  shrouded  their  woe  in  the  shade  of  lone  places, 
And  dash'd  off  bright  tears  till  their  fingers  were  wet. 
And  then  wiped  their  lids  with  long  tresses  of  jet  : 
But  I  fled — though  they  stretch'd  out  their  hands,  all  entangled 
With  hair,  and  blood-stain'd  of  the  breasts  they  had  mangled,—* 
Though  they  call'd — and  perchance  but  to  ask,  had  I  seen 
Their  loves,  or  to  tell  the  vile  wrongs  that  had  been  : 
BviJ  I  stay'd  not  to  hear,  Itst  the  story  should  hold 
£«iiae  hell-form  of  words,  some  enchantment,  once  told, 


|3»  LYCUS,   THE  CENTAUR. 

Might  translate  me  in  flesh  to  a  brute  :  and  I  drea'^ed 
To  gaze  on  their  charms,  lest  my  faith  should  be  wedded 
With  some  pity, — and  love  in  that  pity  perchance — 
To  a  thing  not  all  lovely  ;  for  once  at  a  glance 
Methought,  where  one  sat,  I  descried  a  bright  wonder 
That  flow'd  like  a  long  silver  rivulet  under 
The  long  fenny  grass,  with  so  lovely  a  breast, 
Could  it  be  a  snake-tail  made  the  charm  of  the  rest  ? 


So  I  roam'd  in  that  circle  of  horrors,  and  Fear 
Walk'd  with  me  by  hills  and  in  valleys,  and  near 
Cluster'd  trees  for  their  gloom — not  to  shelter  from  heat- 
But  lest  a  brute  shadow  should  grow  at  my  feet ; 
And  besides  that  full  oft  in  the  sunshiny  place 
Dark  shadows  would  gather  like  clouds  on  its  face, 
In  the  horrible  likeness  of  demons  (that  none 
Could  see,  like  invisible  flames  in  the  sun)  ; 
But  grew  to  one  monster  that  seized  on  the  lights 
Like  the  dragon  that  strangles  the  moon  in  the  night; 
Fierce  sphinxes,  long  serpents,  and  asps  of  the  South 
Wild  birds  of  huge  beak,  and  all  horrors  that  drouth 
Engenders  of  slime  in  the  land  of  the  pest, 
Vile  shapes  without  shape,  and  foul  bats  of  the  West, 
Bringing  Night  on  their  wings  ;  and  the  bodies  whereil 
Great  Brahma  imprisons  the  spirits  of  sin, 
Many-handed,  that  blent  in  one  phantom  of  fight, 
Like  a  Titan,  and  threatfully  warr'd  with  the  light  : 
I  have  heard  the  wild  shriek  that  gave  signal  to  close. 
When  they  rush'd  on  that  shadowy  Python  of  foes. 
That  met  with  sharp  beaks  and  wide  gaping  of  jaws. 
With  flappings  of  wings,  and  fierce  grasping  of  claws, 
And  whirls  of  long  tails  : — 1  have  seen  the  quick  flutter 
Of  fragments  dissever'd — and  necks  stretch'd  to  utter 
Long  screamings  of  pain, — the  swift  motion  of  blows, 
And  wrestlmg  of  arms — to  the  flight  at  the  close. 
When  the  dust  of  the  earth  startled  upward  in  rings, 
And  flew  on  the  whirlwind  that  follow'd  their  wings. 

Thus  they  fled — not  forgotten — but  often  to  grow 
Like  fears  in  my  eyes,  when  I  walk'd  to  and  fro 
In  the  shadows,  and  felt  from  some  beings  unseen 
The  warm  touch  of  kisses,  but  clean  or  unclean 
I  knew  not,  nor  whether  the  love  I  had  won 
Was  of  heaven  or  hell — till  one  day  in  the  sun, 
In  its  very  noon-blaze,  I  could  fancy  a  thing 
Of  beauty,  but  faint  as  the  cloud-mirrors  fling 
On  the  gaze  of  the  shepherd  tiiat  watches  the  sky. 
Half-seen  and  half-dream'd  in  the  soul  of  his  eye. 
And  when  in  my  musings  I  gazed  on  the  stream, 
In  motionless  trances  of  thought,  there  tvould  seeni 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  333 

A  face  like  that  face,  looking  upwards  through  mine  ; 
With  its  eyes  full  of  love,  and  the  dim-drowned  shine 
Of  limbs  and  fair  garments,  like  clouds  in  that  blue 
Serene  : — there  I  stood  for  long  hours  but  to  view 
Those  fond  earnest  eyes  that  were  ever  upHfted 
Towards  me,  and  wink'd  as  the  water-weed  drifted 
Between  ;  but  the  fish  knew  that  presence,  and  plied 
Their  long  curvy  tails,  and  swift  darted  aside. 

There  I  gazed  for  lost  time,  and  forgot  all  the  things 
That  once  had  been  wonders — the  fishes  with  wings, 
And  the  glimmer  of  magnified  eyes  that  look'd  up 
From  the  glooms  of  the  bottom  like  pearls  in  a  cup, 
And  the  huge  endless  serpent  of  silvery  .^leam, 
Slow  wmding  along  like  a  tide  in  the  stream. 
Some  maid  of  the  waters,  some  Naiad,  methought, 
Held  me  dear  in  the  pearl  of  her  eye — and  I  brought 
My  wish  to  that  fancy ;  and  often  I  dash'd 
My  limbs  in  the  water,  and  suddenly  splash'd 
The  cool  drops  around  me,  yet  clung  to  the  brink, 
Chill'd  by  watery  fears,  how  that  Beauty  might  sink 
With  my  life  in  her  arms  to  her  garden,  and  bind  me 
With  its  long  tangled  grasses,  or  cruelly  wmd  me 
In  some  eddy,  to  hum  out  my  life  in  her  ear, 
Like  a  spider-caught  bee, — and  in  aid  of  that  fear 
Came  the  tardy  remembrance — O  falsest  of  men  ! 
Why  was  not  that  beauty  remember'd  till  then  ? 
My  love,  my  safe  love,  whose  glad  life  would  have  run 
Into  mine — like  a  drop — that  our  fate  might  be  one, 
That  now,  even  now,— ma\be, — clasp'd  in  a  dream, 
That  form  which  I  c;ave  to  some  jilt  of  the  stream, 
And  gazed  with  fond  eyes  that  her  tears  tried  to  smother 
On  a  mock  of  those  eyes  that  I  gave  to  another  ! 

Then  I  rose  from  the  stieam,  but  the  eyes  of  my  mind, 
Still  full  of  the  tempter,  kept  gazing  behind 
On  her  crystalline  face,  while  1  painfully  leapt 
To  the  bank,  and  shook  off  the  curst  waters,  and  wept 
With  my  brow  in  the  reeds  ;  and  the  reeds  to  my  ear 
Bow'd,  benl  by  no  wind,  and  in  whispers  of  fear, 
Growing  small  with  large  secrets,  foretold  me  of  one 
That  loved  me, — but,  oh  !  to  fly  from  her,  and  shun 
Her  love  like  a  pest — though  her  love  was  as  true 
To  mine  as  her  stream  to  the  heavenly  blue  ; 
For  why  should  1  love  her  with  love  that  would  bring 
All  misfortune,  like  Hate,  on  so  joyous  a  thing  ? 
Because  of  her  rival, — even. Her  whose  witch-face 
I  had  slighted,  and  therefore  was  doom'd  in  that  place 
To  roam,  and  had  roam'd,  where  all  horrors  grew  rank, 
Nine  days  ere  I  wept  with  my  brow  on  that  bank  ; 


334  LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR. 

Her  name  be  not  named,  but  her  spite  would  not  fail 
To  our  love  like  a  blight  ;  and  they  told  me  the  ..ale 
Of  Scylla  and  Picus,  imprison'd  to  sieak 
His  shrill-screaming  woe  through  a  woodpecker's  beak, 

Then  they  ceased — I  had  heard  as  the  voice  of  my  star 

That  told  me  the  truth  of  my  fortunes — thus  far 

I  had  read  of  my  sorrow,  and  lay  in  the  hush 

Of  deep  meditation, — when  lo  !  a  light  crush 

Of  the  reeds,  and  I  turn'd  and  look'd  round  in  the  night 

Of  new  sunshine,  and  saw,  as  I  sipp'd  of  the  li;^ht 

Narrow-winking,  the  realised  nymph  of  the  stream, 

Rising  up  from  the  wave  with  the  bend  and  the  gleam 

Of  a  fountain,  and  o'er  her  white  arms  she  kept  throwing 

Bright  torrents  of  hair,  that  went  flowing  and  flowing 

In  falls  to  her  feet,  and  the  blue  waters  roll'd 

Down  her  limbs  like  a  garment,  in  many  a  fold, 

Sun-spangled,  gold-broider'd,  and  fled  far  behind, 

Like  an  infinite  train.     So  she  came  and  reclined 

In  the  reeds,  and  I  hunger'd  to  see  her  unseal 

The  buds  of  her  eyes,  that  would  ope  and  reveal 

The  blue  that  was  in  them  ;  and  they  oped,  and  she  ra  sed 

Two  orbs  of  pure  crystal,  and  timidly  gazed 

With  her  eyes  on  my  eyes  ;  but  their  colour  and  shinr 

Was  of  that  which  they  look'd  on,  and  mostly  of  itiine  — 

For  she  loved  me, — except  when  she  blush'd,  and  the)  sanl^ 

Shame-humbled,  to  number  the  stones  on  the  bank, 

Or  her  play-idle  fini;ers,  while  lisping  she  told  me 

How  she  put  on  her  veil,  and,  in  love  to  behold  me, 

Would  wing  through  the  sun  till  she  fainted  away 

Like  a  mist,  and  then  flew  to  her  waters  and  lay 

In  love-patience  long  hours,  and  sore  dazzled  her  eyes 

In  watching  for  mine  'gainst  the  midsummer  skies. 

But  now  they  were  heal'd. — Oh,  my  heart,  it  still  dances 

When  I  think  of  the  charm  of  her  changeable  glances, 

And  my  image  how  small  when  it  sank  in  the  deep 

Of  her  eyes  where  her  soul  was, — Alas  !  now  thev  weep, 

And  none  knoweth  where.     In  what  stream  do  her  e\es 

Shed  invisible  tears  ?     Who  beholds  where  her  sighs 

Flow  in  eddies,  or  sees  the  ascent  of  the  leaf 

She  has  pluck'd  with  her  tresses?     Who  listens  her  giicf 

Like  a  far  fall  of  waters,  or  hears  where  her  feet 

Grow  emphatic  among  the  loose  pebbles,  and  beat 

Them  together?     Ah  !  surely  her  flowers  float  adown 

To  the  sea  unaccepted,  and  little  ones  drown 

For  need  of  her  mercy, — even  he  whose  twin-brother 

Will  miss  him  for  ever  ;  and  the  sorrowful  mother 

Imploreth  in  vain  for  his  body  to  kiss 

And  cling  to,  all  dripping  and  cold  as  it  is. 

Because  that  soft  pity  is  lost  in  hard  pain  ! 

We  loved, — how  we  loved  ! — for  I  thuught  not  again 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  33| 

Of  the  woes  that  were  whisper'd  like  fears  in  that  place 

If  I  gave  me  to  beauty.     Her  face  was  the  fuce 

Far  away,  and  her  eyes  were  the  eyes  that  were  drown'd 

For  my  absence, — her  arms  were  the  arms  that  sought  round 

And  clasp'd  me  to  nought  ;  for  I  gazed  and  became 

Only  true  to  my  falsehood,  and  had  but  one  name 

For  two  lo'  es,  and  call'd  ever  on  ^gle,  sweet  maid 

Of  the  sky-loving  waters, — and  was  not  afraid 

Of  the  sight  of  her  skin  ; — for  it  never  could  be 

Her  beauty  and  love  were  misfortunes  to  me  ! 

Thus  our  bliss  had  endured  for  a  time-shorten'd  space, 
Like  a  day  made  of  three,  and  the  smile  of  her  face 
Had  been  with  me  for  joy, — when  she  told  me  indeed 
Her  love  was  self-task'd  with  a  work  that  would  need 
Some  short  hours,  for  in  truth  'twas  the  veriest  pity 
Our  love  should  not  last,  and  then  sang  me  a  ditty, 
Of  one  with  warm  lips  that  should  love  her,  and  love  her,, 
When  suns  were  burnt  dim  and  long  ages  past  over. 
So  she  fled  with  her  voice,  and  I  patiently  nested 
My  limbs  in  the  reeds,  in  still  quiet,  and  rested 
Till  my  thoughts  grew  extinct,  and  I  sank  in  a  sleep 
Of  dreams, — but  their  meaning  was  hidden  too  deep 
To  be  read  what  their  woe  was  ; — but  still  it  was  woe 
That  was  writ  on  all  faces  that  swam  to  and  fro 
In  that  river  of  night ; — and  the  gaze  of  their  eyes 
Was  sad, — and  the  bend  of  their  brows, — and  their  cries 
Were  seen,  but  I  heard  not.     The  warm  touch  of  tears 
Travell'd  down  my  cold  cheeks,  and  I  shook  till  my  fears 
Awaked  me,  and  lo  !   I  was  couch'd  in  a  bower. 
The  growth  of  long  summers  rear'd  up  in  an  hour  ! 
Then  1  said,  in  the  fear  of  my  dream,  I  will  fly 
From  this  magic,  but  could  not,  because  that  my  eye 
Grew  love-idle  among  the  rich  blooms  ;  and  the  earth 
Held  me  down  with  its  coolness  of  touch,  and  the  mirth 
Of  some  bird  was  above  me, — who,  even  in  fear. 
Would  startle  the  thrush  ?  and  methmight  there  drew  nea« 
A  form  as  of  iCgle. — but  it  was  not  the  face 
Hope  made,  and  I  knew  the  Witch-Queen  of  that  place, 
Even  Circe  the  Cruel,  that  came  like  a  death 
Which  I  fear'd,  and  yet  fled  not,  for  want  of  my  breath. 
There  was  thought  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  were  not  raised 
From  the  grass  at  her  foot,  but  1  saw,  as  I  gazed. 
Her  spite — and  her  countenance  changed  with  her  mind 
As  she  plann'd  how  to  thrall  me  with  beauty,  and  bind 
My  soul  to  her  charms, — and  her  long  tresses  play'd 
From  shade  mto  shine  and  from  shine  into  shade. 
Like  a  day  in  mid-autumn, — first  fair,  oh,  how  fair  ! 
With  long  snaky  locks  of  the  adder-black  hair 
That  clung  round  her  neck, — those  dark  locks  that  I  prizc^ 
For  the  sake  of  a  maid  that  once  loved  me  with  eyes 


336  LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR, 

Of  that  fathomless  hue, — but  they  changed  as  they  roird, 

And  brighten'd,  <ind  suddenly  blazed  into  gold 

That  she  comb'd  into  flames,  and  the  locks  that  fell  down 

Turn'd  dark  as  they  fell,  but  I  slighted  their  brown, 

Nor  loved,  till  I  saw  the  light  ringlets  shed  wild, 

That  innocence  wears  when  she  is  but  a  child  ; 

And  her  eyes, — oh,  I  ne'er  had  been  witch'd  with  their  shine^ 

Had  they  been  any  other,  my  ^Egle,  than  thine  ! 


Then  I  gave  me  to  magic,  and  gazed  till  I  madden'd 
In  the  full  of  their  light, — but  I  sadden'd  and  sadden'd 
The  deeper  I  look'd, — till  I  sank  on  the  snow 
Of  her  bosom,  a  thing  made  of  terror  and  woe, 
And  answer'd  its  throb  with  the  shudder  of  fears. 
And  hid  my  cold  eyes  from  her  eyes  with  my  tears, 
And  strain'd  her  white  arms  with  the  still  languid  weight 
Of  a  fainting  distress.     There  she  sat  like  the  Fate 
That  is  nurse  unto  Death,  and  bent  over  in  shame 
To  hide  me  from  her — the  true  yEgle — that  came 
With  the  words  on  her  lips  the  false  witch  had  foregiven 
To  make  me  immortal — for  now  I  was  even 
At  the  portals  of  Death,  who  but  waited  the  hush 
Of  world-sounds  in  my  ear  to  cry  welcome,  and  rush 
With  my  soul  to  the  banks  of  his  black-flowing  river. 
Oh,  would  it  had  flown  from  my  body  for  ever. 
Ere  I  listen'd  those  words,  when  I  felt,  with  a  start, 
The  life-blood  rush  back  in  one  throb  to  my  heart, 
And  saw  the  pale  lips  where  the  rest  of  that  spell 
Had  perish'd  in  horror — and  heard  the  farewell 
Of  that  voice  that  was  drown'd  in  the  dash  of  the  stream  1 
How  fain  had  I  foUow'd,  and  plunged  with  that  scream 
Into  death,  but  my  being  indignantly  lagg'd 
Through  the  brutalized  flesh  that  I  painfully  dragg'd 
Behind  me  : — "  O  Circe  !  O  mother  of  Spite  ! 
Speak  the  last  of  that  curse  !  and  imprison  me  quite 
In  the  husk  of  a  brute, — that  no  pity  may  name 
The  man  that  I  was, — that  no  kindred  may  claim 
The  monster  I  am  !     Let  me  utterly  be 
Brute-buried,  and  Nature's  dishonour  with  me 
Uninscribed  !" — But  she  listen'd  my  prayer,  that  was  praisfl 
To  her  malice,  with  smiles,  and  advised  me  to  gaze 
On  the  river  for  love, — and  perchance  she  would  make 
In  pity  a  maid  without  eyes  for  my  sake, 
And  she  left  me  like  Scorn.     Then  I  ask'd  of  the  wave, 
What  monster  I  was,  and  it  trembled  and  gave 
The  true  shape  of  my  grief,  and  I  turn'd  with  my  face 
From  all  waters  for  ever,  and  fled  through  that  place, 
'lill  with  horror  more  strong  than  all  magic  I  pass'd 
Its  bounds,  and  the  world  was  before  me  at  last 


LYCUS,  THE  CENTAUR.  ziT 

There  I  wander'd  in  sorrow,  and  shunn'd  the  abodes 
Of  men,  that  stood  up  in  the  likeness  of  gods» 
But  I  saw  from  afar  the  warm  shine  of  the  sun 
On  their  cities,  where  man  was  a  million,  not  one  ; 
And  I  saw  the  white  smoke  of  their  altars  ascending, 
That  show'd  where  the  hearts  of  the  many  were  blending, 
And  the  wind  in  my  face  brought  shrill  voices  that  came 
From  the  trumpets  that  gather'd  whole  bands  in  one  fame 
As  a  chorus  of  man, — and  they  stream'd  from  the  gates 
Like  a  dusky  libation  pour'd  out  to  the  Fates. 
But  at  times  there  were  gentler  processions  of  peace 
That  I  watch'd  with  my  soul  in  my  eyes  till  their  cease. 
There  were  women  !  there  men  !  but  to  me,  a  third  sex, 
I  saw  them  all  dots — yet  I  loved  them  as  specks  : 
And  oft,  to  assuage  a  sad  yearning  of  eyes, 
I  stole  near  the  city,  but  stole  covert-wise 
Like  a  wild  beast  of  love,  and  perchance  to  be  smitten 
By  some  hand  that  I  rather  had  wept  on  than  bitten  I 
Oh,  I  once  had  a  haunt  near  a  cot  where  a  mother 
Daily  sat  in  the  shade  with  her  child,  and  would  smothef 
Its  eyelids  in  kisses,  and  then  in  its  sleep 
Sang  dreams  in  its  ear  of  its  manhood,  while  deep 
In  a  thicket  of  willows  I  gazed  o'er  the  brooks 
That  murmur'd  between  us  and  kiss'd  them  with  looks  ; 
But  the  willows  unbosom'd  their  secret,  and  never 
I  return'd  to  a  spot  I  had  startled  for  ever, 
Though  I  oft  long'd  to  know,  but  could  ask  it  of  none, 
Was  the  mother  still  fair,  and  how  big  was  her  son  ? 

For  the  haunters  of  fields  they  all  shunn'd  me  by  flight. 
The  men  in  their  horror,  the  women  in  fright  ; 
None  ever  remain'd  save  a  child  once  that  sported 
Among  the  wild  bluebells,  and  playfully  courted 
The  breeze  ;  and  beside  him  a  speckled  snake  lay 
Tight  strangled,  because  it  had  hiss'd  him  away 
From  the  flower  at  his  finger  ;  he  rose  and  drew  near 
Like  a  Son  of  Immortals,  one  born  to  no  fear. 
But  with  strength  of  black  locks  and  with  eyes  azure  bright 
To  grow  to  large  manhood  of  merciful  might. 
He  came,  with  his  face  of  bc.ld  wonder,  to  feel 
The  hair  of  my  side,  and  to  lift  up  my  heel, 
And  question'd  my  face  with  wide  eyes  ;  but  when  under 
My  lids  he  saw  tears, — for  I  wept  at  his  wonder, — 
He  stroked  me,  and  utter'd  such  kindliness  then, 
That  the  once  love  of  women,  the  friendship  of  men 
In  past  sorrow,  no  kindness  e'er  came  like  a  kiss 
On  my  heart  in  its  desolate  day  such  as  this  ! 
And  I  yearn'd  at  his  cheeks  in  my  love,  and  down  bent. 
And  lifted  him  up  in  my  arms  with  intent 
To  kiss  him, — but  he,  cruel-kindly,  alas! 
Held  out  to  my  lips  a  pluck'd  handful  of  grass ! 

y 


138  THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT, 

Then  I  dropt  him  in  horror,  but  felt  as  I  fled 
The  stone  he  indignantly  hurl'd  at  my  head, 
That  dissever'd  my  ear, — but  I  felt  not,  whose  fate 
Was  to  meet  more  distress  in  his  love  than  his  hate  I 

Thus  I  wander'd,  companion'd  of  grief  and  forlorn. 
Till  I  wish'd  for  that  land  where  my  being  was  born, 
But  what  was  that  land  with  its  love,  where  my  home 
Was  self-shut  against  me  ;  for  why  should  I  come 
Like  an  after-distress  to  my  grey-bearded  father, 
With  a  blight  to  the  last  of  his  sight  ? — let  him  rather 
Lament  for  me  dead,  and  shed  tears  in  the  urn 
Where  I  was  not,  and  still  in  fond  memory  turn 
To  his  son  even  such  as  he  left  him.     Oh,  how 
Could  I  walk  with  the  youth  once  my  fellows,  but  now 
Like  gods  to  my  humbled  estate  ? — or  how  bear 
The  steeds  once  the  pride  of  my  eyes  and  the  care 
Of  my  hands  ?  Then  I  turn'd  me  self-banish'd,  and  came 
Into  Thessaly  here,  where  I  met  with  the  same 
As  myself.     I  have  heard  how  they  met  by  a  stream 
In  games,  and  were  suddenly  changed  by  a  scream 
That  made  wretches  of  many,  as  she  roll'd  her  wild  eyes 
Against  heaven,  and  so  vanish'd. — The  gentle  and  wise 
Lose  their  thoughts  in  deep  studies,  and  others  their  ill 
In  the  mirth  of  mankind,  where  they  mingle  them  still. 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT, 


Alas  !  that  breathing  Vanity  should  go 

Where  Pride  is  buried, — like  its  very  ghost. 

Uprisen  from  the  naked  bones  below. 
In  novel  flesh,  clad  in  the  silent  boast 

Of  gaudy  silk  that  flutters  to  and  fro. 
Shedding  its  chilling  superstition  most 

On  young  and  ignorant  natures — as  it  wont 

To  haunt  the  peaceful  churchyard  of  Bedfont  I 

n. 

Each  Sabbath  morning,  at  the  hour  of  prayer, 
Behold  two  maidens,  up  the  quiet  green 

Shining,  far  distant,  in  the  summer  air 

That  flaunts  their  dewy  robes  and  breathes  between 

Their  downy  plumes, — sailing  as  if  they  were 
Two  far-off  ships, — until  they  brush  between 

The  churchyard's  humble  walls,  and  watch  and  wait 

On  either  side  of  the  wide-open'd  gate. 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONTi,  339, 


III. 

And  there  they  stand — with  haughty  necks  before 

God's  holy  house,  that  points  towards  the  skies- 
Frowning  reluctant  duty  from  the  poor, 

And  tempting  homage  from  unthoughtful  eyes : 
And  Youth  looks  lingering  from  the  temple  door, 

Breathing  its  wishes  in  unfruitful  sighs, 
With  pouting  lips, — forgetful  of  the  grace, 
Of  health,  and  smiles,  on  the  heart-conscious  face>;— 

IV. 

Because  that  Wealth,  which  has  no  bliss  beside^ 
May  wear  the  happiness  of  rich  attire  ; 

And  those  two  sisters,  in  their  silly  pride. 

May  change  the  soul's  warm  glances  for  the  fire 

Of  lifeless  diamonds  ; — and  for  health  denied, — 
With  art,  that  blushes  at  itself,  inspire 

Their  languid  cheeks — and  flourish  in  a  glory 

That  has  no  life  in  life,  nor  after-story. 

V. 

The  aged  priest  goes  shaking  his  grey  hair 
In  meekest  censuring,  and  turns  his  eye 

Earthward  in  grief  and  heavenward  in  prayer, 
And  sighs,  and  clasps  his  hands,  and  passes  by. 

Good-hearted  man  !  what  sullen  soul  would  wear 
Thy  sorrow  for  a  garb,  and  constantly 

Put  on  thy  censure,  that  might  win  the  praise 

Of  one  so  grey  in  goodness  and  in  days  ? 

VI. 

Also  the  solemn  clerk  partakes  the  shame 
Of  this  ungodly  shine  of  human  pride, 

And  sadly  blends  his  reverence  and  blame 
In  one  grave  bow,  and  passes  with  a  stride 

Impatient  : — many  a  red-hooded  dame 

Turns  her  pain'd  head,  but  not  her  glance,  aside 

From  wanton  dress,  and  marvels  o'er  again 

That  Heaven  hath  no  wet  judgments  for  the  vain. 

VII. 

**  I  have  a  lily  in  the  bloom  at  home," 

Quoth  one,  "  and  by  the  blessed  Sabbath-day 
I'll  pluck  my  lily  in  iis  pride,  and  come 

And  read  a  lesson  upon  vain  array  ; — 
And  when  stiff  silks  are  rustling  up,  and  some 

Give  place,  I'll  shake  it  in  proud  eyes,  and  say- 
Making  my  reverence, — '  Ladies,  an  you  please, 
King  Solomon's  not  half  so  fine  as  these.' " 


340  THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT, 


VIII. 

Then  her  meek  partner,  who  has  nearly  run 

His  earthly  course, — "  Nay,  Goody,  let  your  text 

Grow  in  the  garden. — We  have  only  one — 

Who  knows  that  these  dim  eyes  may  see  the  next  ? 

Summer  will  come  again,  and  summer  sun, 
And  hlies  too, — but  I  were  sorely  vext 

To  mar  my  garden,  and  cut  short  the  blow 

Of  the  last  lily  I  may  live  to  grow." 

IX. 

"  The  last ! "  quoth  she,  "  and  though  the  last  it  were^ 
Lo  !  those  two  wantons,  where  they  stand  so  proud. 

With  waving  plumes,  and  jewels  in  their  hair, 
And  painted  cheeks,  like  Dagons  to  be  bow'd 

And  curtsey'd  to  ! — Last  Sabbath,  after  prayer, 
I  heard  the  little  Tomkins  ask  aloud 

If  they  were  angels — but  I  made  him  know 

God's  bright  ones  better,  with  a  bitter  blow  !  * 


So  speaking,  they  pursue  the  pebbly  walk 

That  leads  to  the  white  porch  the  Sunday  throng. 

Hand-coupled  urchins  in  restrained  talk. 
And  anxious  pedagogue  that  chastens  wrong, 

And  posied  churchwarden  with  solemn  stalk. 
And  gold-bedizen'd  beadle  flames  along. 

And  gentle  peasant,  clad  in  buff  and  green, 

Like  a  meek  cowslip  in  the  spring  serene  ; 

XI. 

And  blushing  maiden — modestly  array'd 

In  spotless  white, — still  conscious  of  the  glass  ; 

And  she,  the  lonely  widow,  that  hath  made 
A  sable  covenant  with  grief, — alas  ! 

She  veils  her  tears  under  the  deep,  deep  shade. 
While  the  poor  kindly-hearted,  as  they  pass. 

Bend  to  unclouded  childhood,  and  caress 

Her  boy, — so  rosy  ! — and  so  fatherless  ! 

XII. 

Thus,  as  good  Christians  ought,  they  all  draw  near 
The  fair  white  temple,  to  the  timely  call 

Of  pleasant  bells  that  tremble  in  the  ear. 

Now  the  last  frock,  and  scarlet  hood,  and  shawl 

Fade  into  dusk  in  the  dim  atmosphere 

Of  the  low  porch,  and  Heaven  has  won  them  all,— ■ 
Saving  those  two,  that  turn  aside  and  pass, 

In  velvet  blossom,  where  all  flesh  is  grass. 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT,  34I 

XIII. 

Ah  me  !  to  see  their  silken  manors  trail'd 

In  purple  luxuries — with  restless  gold, — 
Flaunting  the  grass  where  widowhood  has  wail'd 

in  blotted  black, — over  the  heapy  mould 
Panting  wave-wantonly  !     They  never  quail'd 

How  the  warm  vanity  abused  the  cold  ; 
Nor  saw  the  solemn  faces  of  the  gone 
Sadly  uplooking  through  transparent  stone  ; 

XIV. 

But  swept  their  dwellings  with  unquiet  light, 
Shocking  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead  ; 

Where  gracious  natures  would  their  eyes  benight. 
Nor  wear  their  being  with  a  lip  too  red, 

Nor  move  too  rudely  m  the  summer  bright 
Of  sun,  but  put  staid  sorrow  in  their  tread, 

Meting  it  into  steps,  with  inward  breath, 

In  very  pity  to  bereaved  death. 

XV. 

Now  in  the  church,  time-sober'd  minds  resign 

To  solemn  prayer,  and  the  loud-chaunted  hymn,— 

With  glowing  picturings  of  joys  divine 

Painting  tiie  mistUght  where  the  roof  is  dim ; 

But  youth  looks  upward  to  the  window  shine. 
Warming  with  rose  and  purple  and  the  swim 

Of  gold,  as  if  thought-tinted  by  the  stains 

Of  gorgeous  light  through  many-colour'd  panes ; 

XVL 

Soiling  the  virgin  snow  wherein  God  hath 
Enrobed  His  angels, — and  with  absent  eyes 

Hearing  of  Heaven,  and  its  directed  path. 

Thoughtful  of  sHppers, — and  the  glorious  skies 

Clouding  with  satin, — till  the  preacher's  wrath 
Consumes  his  pity,  and  he  glows,  and  cries 

With  a  deep  voice  that  trembles  in  its  might, 

And  earnest  eyes  grown  eloquent  in  light : 

XVII. 

*  Oh,  that  the  vacant  eye  would  learn  to  look 

On  very  beauty,  and  the  heart  embrace 
True  loveliness,  and  from  this  holy  book 

Drink  the  warm-breathing  tenderness  and  grace 
Of  love  indeed  !  Oh,  that  the  young  soul  took 

Its  virgin  passion  from  the  glorious  face 
Of  fair  religion,  and  address'd  its  strife, 
To  win  the  riches  of  eternal  life  1 


'349  THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT. 

XVIII. 

**  Doth  the  vain  heart  love  glory  that  is  none, 

And  the  poor  excellence  of  vain  attire  ? 
Oh,  go  and  drown  your  eyes  against  the  sun, 

The  visible  ruler  of  the  starry  quire, 
Till  boiling  gold  in  giddy  eddies  run, 

Dazzling  the  brain  with  orbs  of  living  fire  ; 
And  the  faint  soul  down  darkens  into  night, 
And  dies  a  burning  martyrdom  to  light. 

XIX. 

*  Oh,  go  and  gaze, — when  the  low  winds  of  even 
Breathe  hymns,  and  Nature's  many  forests  nod 

Their  gold-crown'd  heads  ;  and  the  rich  blooms  of  heaven, 
Sun-ripen'd,  give  their  blushes  up  to  God  ; 

And  mountain-rocks  and  cloudy  steeps  are  riven 
By  founts  of  fire,  as  smitten  by  the  rod 

Of  heavenly  Moses, — that  your  thirsty  sense 

May  quench  its  longings  of  magnificence ! 

XX. 

**Yet  suns  shall  perish — stars  shall  fade  away- 
Day  into  darkness — darkness  into  death — 

Death  into  silence  ;  the  warm  light  of  day, 

The  blooms  of  summer,  the  rich  glowing  breath 

Of  even — all  shall  wither  and  decay, 

Like  the  frail  furniture  of  dreams  beneath 

The  touch  of  morn — or  bubbles  of  rich  dyes, 

That  break  and  vanish  in  the  aching  eyes." 

XXL 

They  hear,  soul-blushing,  and,  repentant,  shed 

Unwholesome  thoughts  in  wholesome  tears,  and  poUT 

Their  sin  to  earth, — and  with  low  drooping  head 
Receive  the  solemn  blessing,  and  implore 

Its  grace — then  soberly,  with  chasten'd  tread, 
They  meekly  press  towards  the  gusty  door. 

With  humbled  eyes,  that  go  to  graze  upon 

The  lowly  grass — like  him  of  Babylon. 

XXII. 

The  lowly  grass  ! — Oh,  water-constant  mind  I 
Fast-ebbing  holiness  ! — soon-fading  grace 

Of  serious  thought,  as  if  the  gushing  wind 

Through  the  low  porch  had  wash'd  it  from  the  face 

For  ever  ! — How  they  lift  their  eyes  to  find 
Old  vanities. — Pride  wins  the  very  place 

Of  meekness,  like  a  bird,  and  flutters  now 

With  idle  wmgs  on  the  curl-conscious  brow  1 


THE  TWO  PEACOCKS  OF  BEDFONT.  34J 


XXIIL 

And  lo !  with  eager  looks  they  seek  the  way 

Of  old  temptation  at  the  lowly  gate  ; 
To  feast  on  feathers,  and  on  vain  array, 

And  painted  cheeks,  and  the  rich  glistering  state 
Of  jewel-sprinkled  locks. — But  where  are  they, 

The  graceless  haughty  ones  that  used  to  wait 
With  lofty  neck,  and  nods,  and  stitfen'd  eye  ? — 
None  challenge  the  old  homage  bending  by. 

XXIV. 

In  vain  they  look  for  the  ungracious  bloom 
Of  rich  apparel  where  it  glow'd  before, — 

For  Vanity  has  faded  all  to  gloom, 

And  lofty  Pride  has  stiffen'd  to  the  core, 

For  impious  Life  to  tremble  at  its  doom,— 
Set  for  a  warning  token  evermore. 

Whereon,  as  now,  the  giddy  and  the  wise 

Shall  gaze  with  lifted  hands  and  wondering  eyes. 

XXV. 

The  aged  priest  goes  on  each  Sabbath  mom. 
But  shakes  not  sorrow  under  his  grey  hair  ; 

The  solemn  clerk  goes  lavender'd  and  shorn, 
Nor  stoops  his  back  to  the  ungodly  pair  ; — 

And  ancient  lips,  that  pucker'd  up  in  scorn. 
Go  smoothly  breathing  to  the  house  of  prayer; 

And  in  the  garden-plot,  from  day  to  day, 

The  lily  blooms  its  long  white  life  away. 

XXVI. 

And  where  two  haughty  maidens  used  to  be, 

In  pride  of  plume,  where  plumy  Death  had  trod, 

Trailing  their  gorgeous  velvets  wantonly. 
Most  unmeet  pall,  over  the  holy  sod  ; 

There,  gentle  stranger,  thou  may'st  only  see 

Two  sombre  Peacocks. Age,  with  sapient  nod 

Marking  the  spot,  still  tarries  to  declare 

How  they  once  lived,  and  wherefore  they  are  there; 


MINOR    POEMS. 


d   RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW^ 

Oh,  when  I  was  a  tiny  boy, 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind  !^ 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  teardrop  from  my  eye, 

To  cast  a  look  behind  1 

A  hoop  was  an  eternal  round 

Of  pleasure.     In  those  days  I  found 

A  top  a  joyous  thing  ; — 
But  now  those  past  delights  I  drop, 
My  head,  alas  !  is  all  my  top, 

And  careful  thoughts  the  string  ! 

My  marbles — once  my  bag  was  stored,-^ 
Now  I  must  play  with  Elgin's  lord, 

With  Theseus  for  a  taw  ! 
My  playful  horse  has  slipt  his  string, 
Forgotten  all  his  capermg, 

AJid  hamess'd  to  the  law  ! 

My  kite — how  fast  and  far  it  flew  ! 
Whilst  I,  a  sort  of  Franklin,  drew 

My  pleasure  from  the  sky  ! 
'Twas  paper'd  o'er  with  studious  themet, 
The  tasks  I  wrote — my  present  dreams 

Will  never  soar  so  high  ! 

My  joys  are  wingless  all  and  dead  ; 
My  dumps  are  made  of  more  than  lead  ; 

My  flights  soon  find  a  fall  ; 
My  fears  prevail,  my  fancies  droop, 
Joy  never  cometh  with  a  hoop. 

And  seldom  with  a  call ! 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW.  34S 

My  football's  laid  upon  the  shelf ; 
I  am  a  shuttlecock  myself 

The  world  knocks  to  and  fro  ;— 
My  archery  is  all  unlearn'd, 
And  grief  against  myself  has  turn'd 

My  arrows  and  my  bow  ! 

No  more  in  noontide  sun  I  bask  ; 
My  authorship's  an  endless  task, 

My  head's  ne'er  out  of  school : 
My  heart  is  pain'd  with  scorn  and  slight, 
I  have  too  many  foes  to  fight, 

And  friends  grown  strangely  cool  I 

The  very  chum  that  shared  my  cake 
Holds  out  so  cold  a  hand  to  shake. 

It  makes  me  shrink  and  sigh  : — 
On  this  I  will  not  dwell  and  hang, 
The  changeling  would  not  feel  a  pang 

Though  these  should  meet  his  eye  I 


No  skies  so  blue  or  so  serene 

As  then  ; — no  leaves  look  half  so  green 

As  clothed  the  playground  tree  ! 
All  things  I  loved  are  alter'd  so. 
Nor  does  it  ease  my  heart  to  know 

That  change  resides  in  me  ! 

Oh,  for  the  garb  that  mark'd  the  boy, 
The  trousers  made  of  corduroy. 

Well  ink'd  with  black  and  red  ; 
The  crownless  hat,  ne'er  deem'd  an  ill— 
It  only  let  the  sunshine  still 

Repose  upon  my  head  ! 

Oh,  for  the  riband  round  the  neck  ! 
The  careless  dog's-ears  apt  to  deck 

My  book  and  collar  both  ! 
How  can  this  formal  man  be  styled 
Merely  an  Alexandrine  child, 

A  boy  of  larger  growth  ? 

Oh,  for  that  small,  small  beer  anew  ! 

And  (heaven's  own  type)  that  mild  sky-blue 

That  washed  my  sweet  meals  down  ; 
The  master  even  ! — and  that  small  Turk 
That  fagg'd  me  ! — worse  is  now  my  work — 

A  fag  for  all  the  town  ! 


U^  FAIR  INES. 

Oh,  for  the  lessons  learn'd  by  lieart  I 
Ay,  though  the  very  birch's  smart 

Should  mark  those  hours  again  ; 
I'd  "  kiss  the  rod,"  and  be  resign'd 
Beneath  the  stroke,  and  even  find 

Some  sugar  in  the  cane  ! 

The  Arabian  Nights  rehearsed  in  bed  I 
The  Fairy  Tales  in  school-time  read, 

By  stealth,  'twixt  verb  and  noun  I 
The  angel  form  that  always  walk'd 
In  all  my  dreams,  and  look'd  and  talk'd 

Exactly  like  Miss  Brown  ! 

The  omne  bene — Christmas  come  ! 
The  prize  of  merit,  won  for  home — 

Merit  had  prizes  then  ! 
But  now  I  write  for  days  and  days, 
For  fame — a  deal  of  empty  praise, 
Without  the  silver  pen  1 

Then  home,  sweet  home  !  the  crowded  coaclK-* 
The  joyous  shout — the  loud  approach — 

The  winding  horns  like  rams'  ! 
The  meeting  sweet  that  made  me  thrill, 
The  sweetmeats  almost  sweeter  stilL 

No  « satis  "  to  the  "jams  !  "— 

When  that  I  was  a  tiny  boy 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy. 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind ! 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  teardrop  from  my  eye. 

To  cast  a  look  behind  I 


FAIR  INES, 


Oh,  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 
She's  gone  into  the  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 
And  rob  the  world  of  rest  : 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 
The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheeky 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 


FAIR  INES.  341 


II. 

Oil,  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night,      ■ 

For  fear  the  Moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write  ! 

III. 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 

Who  rode  so  gaily  by  thy  side. 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near  ! 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  hom^ 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

IV. 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen. 

And  banners  waved  before  ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay. 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  ; — 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

—If  it  had  been  no  more  1 

V. 

Alas,  alas  !  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirtn. 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  fareweil, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long  ! 

VI. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines  I 

That  vessel  never  bore 

So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  I 


348 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SUMMER. 

Summer  is  gone  on  swallows'  wings, 

And  Earth  has  buried  all  her  flowers  : 

No  more  the  lark,  the  linnet  sings, 

But  Silence  sits  in  faded  bowers. 

There  is  a  shadow  on  the  plain 

Of  Winter  ere  he  comes  again, — 

There  is  in  woods  a  solemn  sound 

Of  hollow  warnings  whisper'd  round, 

As  Echo  in  her  deep  recess 

For  once  had  turn'd  a  prophetess. 

Shuddering  Autumn  stops  to  list, 

And  breathes  his  fear  in  sudden  sighs, 

With  clouded  face,  and  hazel  eyes 

That  quench  themselves,  and  hide  in  mist 

Yes,  Summer's  gone  like  pageant  bright ; 
Its  glorious  days  of  golden  light 
Are  gone — the  mimic  suns  that  quiver, 
Then  melt  in  Time's  dark-flowing  river. 
Gone  the  sweetly-scented  breeze 
That  spoke  in  music  to  the  trees  ; 
Gone  for  damp  and  chilly  breath. 
As  if  fresh  blown  o'er  marble  seas, 
Or  newly  from  the  lungs  of  Death. 
Gone  its  virgin  roses'  blushes, 
Warm  as  when  Aurora  rushes 
Freshly  from  the  god's  embrace, 
With  all  her  shame  upon  her  face. 
Old  Time  hath  laid  them  in  the  mould ; 
Sure  he  is  blmd  as  well  as  old, 
Whose  hand  relentless  never  spares, 
Young  cheeks  so  beauty-bright  as  theirs  f 
Gone  are  the  flame-eyed  lovers  now 
From  where  so  blushing-blest  they  tarried 
Under  the  hawthorn's  blossom-bough, 
Gone  ;  for  Day  and  Night  are  married. 
All  the  light  of  love  is  fled  : — 
Alas  !  that  negro  breasts  should  hide 
The  lips  that  were  so  rosy  red, 
At  morning  and  at  eventide  ! 

Delightful  Summer  !  then  adieu 
Till  thou  shalt  visit  us  anew  : 
But  who  without  regretful  sigh  ^ 

Can  say,  adieu,  and  see  thee  fly? 
Not  he  that  e'er  hath  felt  thy  power, 
His  joy  expanding  like  a  flower 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SUMMER.  349 

That  Cometh  after  rain  and  snow, 

Looks  up  at  heaven,  and  learns  to  glow  : — 

Not  he  that  fled  from  Babel-strife 

To  the  green  sabbath-land  of  life, 

To  dodge  dull  Care  'mid  cluster'd  trees, 

And  cool  his  forehead  in  the  breeze, — 

Whose  spirit,  weary-worn,  perchance, 

Shook  from  its  wings  a  weight  of  grief, 

And  perch'd  upon  an  aspen  leaf, 

For  every  breath  to  make  it  dance. 

Farewell  ! — on  wings  of  sombre  stain, 
That  blacken  in  the  last  blue  skies,  _ 
Thou  fliest  ;  but  thou  wilt  come  again 
On  the  gay  wings  of  butterflies. 
Spring  at  thy  approach  will  sprout 
Her  new  Corinthian  beauties  out, 
Leaf-woven  homes,  where  twitter-words 
Will  grow  to  songs,  and  eggs  to  birds  ; 
Ambitious  buds  shall  swell  to  flowers, 
And  April  smiles  to  sunny  hours. 
Bright  days  shall  be,  and  gentle  nights 
Full  of  soft  breath  and  echo-lights, 
As  if  the  god  of  sun-time  kept 
His  eyes  half-open  while  he  slept. 
Roses  shall  be  where  roses  were, 
Not  shadows,  but  reality  ; 
As  if  they  never  perish'd  there. 
But  slept  in  immortality  : 
Nature  shall  thrill  with  new  delight, 
And  Time's  relumined  river  run 
Warm  as  young  blood,  and  dazzling  bright. 
As  if  its  source  were  in  the  sun  ! 

But  say,  hath  Winter  then  no  charms? 
Is  there  no  joy,  no  gladness  warms 
His  aged  heart?  no  happy  wiles 
To  cheat  the  hoary  one  to  smiles  ? 
Onward  he  comes— the  cruel  North 
Pours  his  furious  whirlwmd  forth 
Before  him — and  we  breathe  the  breath 
Of  famisli'd  bears  that  howl  to  death. 
Onward  he  comes  from  rocks  that  blanch 
O'er  solid  streams  that  never  flow, 
His  tears  all  ice,  his  locks  all  snow, 
Just  crept  from  some  huge  avalanche — 
A  thing  half-breathing  and  half-warm. 
As  if  one  spark  began  to  glow 
Within  some  statue's  marble  form, 
Or  pilgrim  stiffen'd  in  the  storm. 


350  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SUMMER. 

Oh,  will  not  Mirth's  light  arrows  fail 
To  pierce  that  frozen  coat  of  mail  ? 
Oh,  will  not  Joy  but  strive  in  vain 
To  light  up  those  glazed  eyes  again  ? 

No  !  take  him  in,  and  blnze  the  oak, 
And  pour  the  wine,  and  warm  the  ale  ; 
His  sides  shall  shake  to  m.iny  a  joke, 
His  tongue  shall  thaw  in  many  a  tale, 
His  eyes  grow  bright,  his  heart  be  gay, 
And  even  his  palsy  charm'd  away. 
What  heeds  he  then  the  boisterous  shout 
Of  angry  winds  that  sculd  without, 
Like  shrewish  wives  at  tavern  door  ? 
What  heeds  he  then  the  wild  uproar 
Of  billows  bursting  on  the  shore  ? 
In  dashing  waves,  in  howling  breeze. 
There  is  a  music  that  can  charm  him  ; 
When  safe  and  shelter'd,  and  at  ease, 
He  hears  the  storm  that  cannot  harm  him. 

But  hark  !  those  shouts  !  that  sudden  dia 
Of  little  hearts  that  laugh  within. 
Oh,  take  him  where  the  youngsters  play, 
And  he  will  grow  as  young  as  they  ! 
They  come  !  they  come  !  each  blue-eyed  Sport, 
The  Twelfth-Night  King  and  all  his  court— 
'TIS  Mirth  fresh  crovvn'd  with  mistletoe  1 
Music  with  her  merry  fiddles, 
Joy  "  on  light  fantastic  toe," 
Wit  with  all  his  jests  and  riddles, 
Singing  and  dancing  as  they  go, 
And  Love,  young  Love,  among  the  rest, 
A  welcome — nor  unbidden  guest. 

But  still  for  Summer  dost  thou  grieve? 
Then  read  our  Poets — they  shall  weave 
A  garden  of  green  fancies  still. 
Where  thy  wish  may  rove  at  wilL 
They  have  kept  for  after  treats 
The  essences  of  summer  sweets,  • 

And  echoes  of  its  songs  that  wind 
In  endless  music  through  the  mind  : 
They  have  stamp'd  in  visible  traces 
The  "  thoughts  that  breathe,"  in  words  that  shine— 
The  flights  of  soul  in  sunny  places — 
To  greet  and  company  with  thine. 
These  shall  wing  thee  on  to  flowers— 
The  past  or  future,  that  shall  seem 
All  the  brighter  in  thy  dream 
For  blowing  in  such  desert  hours. 


ODE    AUTUMIf.  351 

The  summer  never  shines  so  bright 

As  thought  of  in  a  winter's  night ; 

And  the  sweetest,  loveliest  rose 

Is  in  the  bud  before  it  blows. 

The  dear  one  of  the  lover's  heart 

Is  painted  to  his  longing  eyes 

In  charms  she  ne'er  can  realise — 

But  when  she  turns  again  to  part. 

Dream  thou  then,  and  bind  thy  brow 

"With  wreath  of  fancy  roses  now, 

And  drink  of  Summer  in  the  cup 

Where  the  Muse  hath  mix'd  it  up  ; 

The  "dance,  and  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth,"* 

With  the  warm  nectar  of  the  earth  ; 

Drink  !  'twill  glow  in  every  vein, 

And  thou  shalt  dream  the  winter  through : 

Then  waken  to  the  sun  again, 

And  find  thy  Summer  Vision  true  1 


SONG. 

FOR  MUSIC. 

A  LAKE  and  a  fairy  boat 

To  sail  in  the  moonlight  clear,— 

And  merrily  we  would  float 

From  the  dragons  that  watch  us  here  ! 

Thy  gown  should  be  snow-white  silk, 
And  strings  of  orient  pearls, 
Like  gossamers  dipp'd  in  milk. 
Should  twine  with  thy  raven  curls  ! 

Red  rubies  should  deck  thy  hands, 
And  diamonds  should  be  thy  dower- 
But  fairies  have  broke  their  wands, 
And  wishing  has  lost  its  power  1 


ODE: 

AUTUMN. 


I  SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  mom 

Stand  shadowless  like  Silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 

*  Keats.  •'  Ode  to  a  Grecian  Urn." 


SS2  ODE '.AUTUMN. 

Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ; — 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pesirling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ? — With  the  suo. 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  South, 

Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 

And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous  mouth. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds  .'' — Away,  away, 

On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement  skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 

Undazzled  at  noonday, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustres  eyes. 

III. 

Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer? — In  the  West, 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the  mild  eve  by  sudden  night  is  prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatch'd  from  her  flowers, 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 
Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer, — the  green  prime  — 
The  many,  many  leaves  all  twinkling  ? — Three 
On  the  moss'd  elm  ;  three  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling, — and  one  upon  the  old  oak-tree  ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality  .'' — 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew, 
Or  wearing  the  lon^,'  gloomy  Winter  through 

In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 


The  squirrel  gloats  on  his  accomplish'd  hoard. 
The  ants  have  brimm'd  their  garners  with  ripe  grain 

And  honey-bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  Summer  in  their  luscious  cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  wing'd  across  the  main  ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells. 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 
Alone,  alone, 
Upon  a  mossy  stone, 
She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone, 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary, 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far  away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  grey  upon  the  grey. 


BALLAD.  353 

V. 

Oh,  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 

Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair  : 

She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 

Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ; — 

There  is  enough  of  wither'd  everywhere 

To  make  her  bower, — and  enough  of  gloom  ; 

There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 

If  only  for  the  rose  that  died, — whose  doom 

Is  Beauty's — she  that  with  the  living  bloom 

Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light  j— 

There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 

Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the  earth  doth  bear, — 

Enough  of  chilly  droppings  for  her  bowl ; 

Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair 

To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul  t 


BALLAD, 

Spring  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary, 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  must  fly| 

When  he's  forsaken, 

Wither'd  and  shaken. 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Love  will  not  clip  him. 

Maids  will  not  lip  him, 
Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by  ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny, 

Age  has  no  honey, — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

June  it  was  jolly, 

Oh,  for  its  folly  ! 
A  dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  } 

Youth  may  be  silly, 

Wisdom  is  chilly, — 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 


Friends  they  are  scanty, 
Beggars  are  plenty, 

If  he  has  followers,  I  know  why  ; 
Gold's  in  his  clutches 
(Buying  him  crutches  !) — 

What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 


354 


HYMN  TO  THE  SUN. 

Giver  of  glowing  light ! 
Though  but  a  god  of  other  days, 

The  kings  and  sages 

Of  wiser  ages 
^till  live  and  gladden  in  thy  genial  rays  t 

King  of  the  tuneful  lyre, 
Still  poets'  hymns  to  thee  belong  j 

Though  lips  are  cold 

Whereon  of  old 
Thy  beams  all  turn'd  to  worshipping  and  song  f 

Lord  of  the  dreadful  bow, 
None  triumph  now  for  Python's  death  ; 

But  thou  dost  save 

From  hungry  grave 
The  life  that  hangs  upon  a  summer  breath. 

Father  of  rosy  day, 
No  more  thy  clouds  of  incense  rise ; 
But  waking  flowers, 
At  morning  hours, 
Give  out  their  sweets  to  meet  thee  in  the  skies* 

God  of  the  Delphic  fane, 
No  more  thou  listenest  to  hymns  sublime  ; 
But  they  will  leave 
On  winds  at  eve, 
A  solemn  echo  to  the  end  of  time. 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY. 


Laoy,  wouldst  thou  heiress  be 
To  Winter's  cold  and  cruel  part  ? 

When  he  sets  the  rivers  free, 

Thou  dost  still  lock  up  thy  heart  j— • 

Thou  that  shouldst  outlast  the  snow 

But  in  the  whiteness  of  thy  brow  ? 

II. 

Scorn  and  cold  neglect  are  made 
For  winter  gloom  and  winter  wind  ; 

But  thou  wilt  wrong  the  summer  air, 
Breathing  it  to  words  unkind, — 

Breath  which  only  should  belong 

To  love,  to  sunlight,  and  to  song  ! 


RUTF.  35J 


IIL 

When  the  little  buds  unclose, 

Red,  and  white,  and  pied,  and  blue, 

And  that  virgin  flower,  the  rose, 
Opes  her  heart  to  hold  the  dew, 

Wilt  thou  lock  thy  bosom  up 

With  no  jewel  in  its  cup  ? 

IV. 

Let  not  cold  December  sit 

Thus  in  Love's  peculiar  throne  ;— 
Brooklets  are  not  prison'd  now, 

But  crystal  frosts  are  all  agone, 
And  that  which  hangs  upon  the  spraVf 
It  is  no  snow,  but  flower  of  May  I 


AUTUMN, 


The  Autumn  skies  are  flush'd  with  gold. 
And  fair  and  bright  the  rivers  run  ; 
These  are  but  streams  of  winter  cold, 
And  painted  mists  that  quench  the  sun. 

II. 

In  secret  boughs  no  sweet  birds  sing, 
In  secret  boughs  no  bird  can  shroud  ; 
These  are  but  leaves  that  take  to  wing, 
And  wintry  winds  that  pipe  so  loud. 

IIL 

'TIS  not  trees'  shade,  but  cloudy  glooms, 
That  on  the  cheerless  valleys  fell  ; 
The  flowers  are  in  their  grassy  tombs, 
And  tears  of  dew  are  on  them  all. 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  com, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowmg  kiss  had  won. 


3S«  THE  SEA  OF  DEATH. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripen'd  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell. 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; — > 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks. 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks  :— 

Sure,  I  said,  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean  i 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown,  and  come. 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


THE  SEA  OF  DEATH, 

A  FRAGMENT. 


-Methought  T  saw 


X.!fe  swiftly  treading  over  endless  space  ; 
And,  at  her  footprint,  but  a  bygone  pace. 
The  ocean-past,  which,  with  increasing  wave^ 
Swallow'd  her  steps  like  a  pursuing  grave. 

Sad  were  my  thoughts,  that  anchor'd  silently 
On  the  dead  waters  of  that  passionless  sea, 
Unstirr'd  by  any  touch  of  living  breath  : 
Silence  hung  over  it,  and  drowsy  Death, 
Like  a  gorged  sea-bird,  slept  with  folded  wings 
On  crowded  carcases — sad  passive  things, 
That  wore  the  thin  grey  surface,  like  a  veil 
Over  the  calmness  of  their  features  pale. 

And  there  were  spring-faced  cherubs,  that  did  sleep 

Like  waterlilies  on  that  motionless  deep — • 

How  beautiful  !  with  bright  unruffled  hair 

On  sleek,  unfretted  brows,  and  eyes  that  were 

Buried  in  marble  tombs,  a  pale  eclipse  ! 

And  smile-bedimpled  chei  ks,  and  pleasant  lips, 

Meekly  apart,  as  if  the  soul  intense 

Spake  out  in  dreams  of  its  own  innocence  : 

And  so  they  lay  in  loveliness,  and  kept 

The  birth-night  of  their  peace,  that  Life  e'en  wept 


BALLAD.  357 

With  very  envy  of  their  happy  fronts  ; 

For  there  were  neighbour  brows  scarr'd  by  the  brunts 

Of  strife  and  sorrowing,  where  Care  had  set 

His  crooked  autograph,  and  marr'd  the  jet 

Of  s^lossy  locks  with  hollow  eyes  forlorn, 

And  lips  that  curl'd  in  bitterness  and  scorn — 

Wretched, — as  they  had  breathed  of  this  world's  pain. 

And  so  bequeath'd  it  to  the  world  again 

Through  the  beholder's  heart  in  heavy  sigh* 


So  lay  they  garmented  in  torpid  light, 
Under  the  pall  of  a  transparent  nigh^ 
Like  solemn  apparitions  lull'd  sublime 
To  everlasting  rest, — and  with  them  Time 
Slept,  as  he  sleeps  upon  the  silent  fkce 
Of  a  dark  dial  in  a  sunless  place 


BALLAD. 

She's  up  and  gone,  the  graceless  gWI 

And  robb'd  my  failing  years  ; 
My  blood  before  was  thin  and  cold. 

But  now  'tis  turn'd  to  tears  ; — 
My  shadow  falls  upon  my  grave, 

So  near  the  brink  I  stand  ; 
She  might  have  stay'd  a  little  yet, 

And  led  me  by  the  hand  ! 


Ay,  call  her  on  the  barren  moor. 

And  call  her  on  the  hill  ; 
Tis  nothing  but  the  heron's  cry. 

And  plover's  answer  shrill  ; 
My  child  is  flown  on  wilder  wingt 

Than  they  have  ever  spread, 
And  I  may  even  walk  a  waste 

That  widen'd  when  she  fled. 


Full  many  a  thankless  child  has  been, 

But  never  one  like  mine  ; 
Her  meat  was  served  on  plates  of  gol<^ 

Her  drink  was  rosy  wine. 
But  now  she'll  share  the  robin's  foo<^ 

And  sup  the  common  rill. 
Before  her  feet  will  turn  agaia 

To  meet  her  father's  will  1 


3S8 


i  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMJSER. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  bom, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn  ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  dav, 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away  1 

II. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 
Those  flowers  made  of  light  ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built. 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,— 
The  tree  is  living  yet  1 

III. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  1 

IV. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  } 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  a.i^ainst  the  sky  : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now 'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


859 


BALLAD, 

Sigh  on,  sad  heart,  for  Love's  eclipse 

And  Beauty's  fairest  queen, 
Tho'  'tis  not  for  my  peasant  lips 

To  soil  her  name  between  : 
A  king  might  lay  his  sceptre  down. 

But  I  am  poor  and  nought ; 
The  brow  should  wear  a  golden  crown 

That  wears  her  in  its  thought. 

The  diamonds  glancing  in  her  hair, 

Whose  sudden  beams  surprise. 
Might  bid  such  humble  hopes  beware 

The  glancing  of  her  eyes  ; 
Yet  looking  once,  I  look'd  too  long. 

And  if  my  love  is  sin, 
Death  follows  on  the  heels  of  wrong, 

And  kills  the  crime  within. 


Her  dress  seem'd  wove  of  lily  leaves^ 

It  was  so  pure  and  fine  ; 
Oh,  lofty  wears,  and  lowly  weaves, 

But  hoddan-grey  is  mine  ; 
And  homely  hose  must  step  apart 

Where  garter'd  princes  stand, 
But  may  he  wear  my  love  at  heart 

That  wins  her  lily  hand  ! 

Alas  !  there's  far  from  russet  frieze 

To  silks  and  satin  gowns, 
But  I  doubt  if  God  made  like  degrees 

In  courtly  hearts  and  clowns. 
My  father  wrong'd  a  maiden's  mirth. 

And  brought  her  cheeks  to  blame. 
And  all  that's  lordly  of  my  birth 

Is  my  reproach  and  shame  ! 

•Tis  vain  to  weep, — 'tis  vain  to  sigh, 

'Tis  vain,  this  idle  speech, 
For  where  her  happy  pearls  do  lie 

My  tears  may  never  reach  ; 
Vet,  when  I'm  gone,  e'en  lofty  pride 

May  say  of  what  has  been, 
His  love  was  nobly  born  and  died, 

Tho'  all  the  rest  was  mean  ! 


3«0  THE  EXILE. 


My  speech  is  rude, — but  speech  is  weak 

Such  love  as  mine  to  tell, 
Yet  had  I  words,  I  dare  not  speak, 

So,  Lady,  fare  thee  well ! 
I  will  not  wish  thy  better  state 

Was  one  of  low  degree, 
But  I  must  weep  that  partial  fate 

Made  such  a  churl  of  me. 


THE  WATER  LADY. 

Alas,  the  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see  I- 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fair  was  she  ! 

I  stay'd  awhile  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

I  stay'd  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore,  in  place  of  re^ 
The  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 

I  stay'd  to  watch,  a  little  space, 
Her  parted  lips  if  she  would  sing; 
The  waters  closed  above  her  face 
With  many  a  ring. 

And  still  I  stay'd  a  little  more- 
Alas  !  she  never  comes  again  ; 
I  throw  my  flowers  from  the  shocifl^ 
And  watch  in  vain. 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away, 
I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine, 
For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 
But  she's  divine  1 


THE  EXILE. 

The  swallow  with  summer 

Will  wing  o'er  the  seas. 
The  wind  that  I  sigh  to 

Will  visit  thy  trees. 
The  ship  that  it  hastens 

Thy  ports  will  contain, 
But  me — 1  must  never 

See  England  again  ! 


SOKG.  361 

There's  many  that  weep  there, 

But  one  weeps  alone, 
For  the  tears  that  are  falling 

So  far  from  her  own  ; 
So  far  from  thy  own,  love, 

We  know  not  our  pain, 
If  death  is  between  us, 

Or  only  the  main. 

When  the  white  cloud  reclines 

On  the  verge  of  the  sea, 
I  fancy  the  white  cliffs. 

And  dream  upon  thee  : 
But  the  cloud  spreads  it  wings 

To  the  blue  heaven,  and  flies : 
We  never  shall  meet,  love, 

Except  in  the  skies  ! 

TO  AN  ABSENTEE. 

O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  distant  sea, 
Through  all  the  miles  that  stretch  between, 
l^y  thought  must  fly  to  rest  on  thee, 
And  would  though  worlds  should  intervene 

Nay,  thou  art  now  so  dear,  methinks 
The  farther  we  are  forced  apart, 
Affection's  firm  elastic  links 
But  bind  the  closer  round  the  heart 

For  now  we  sever  each  from  each, 
I  learn  what  I  have  lost  in  thee ; 
Alas,  that  nothing  less  could  teach 
How  great  indeed  my  love  should  be  I 

Farewell  !  I  did  not  know  thy  worth. 
But  thou  art  gone,  and  now  'tis  prized  : 
So  angels  walk'd  unknown  on  earth, 
But  when  they  flew,  were  recognized  I 

SONG. 


The  stars  are  with  the  voyager 

Wherever  he  may  sail ; 
The  moon  is  constant  to  her  time  { 

The  sun  will  never  fail  ; 
But  follow,  follow  round  the  world. 

The  green  earth  and  the  sea  ; 
So  love  is  with  the  lover's  heart. 

Wherever  he  may  be. 


j6a  ODE  TO  THE  MOON, 


II. 


Wherever  he  maj'  be,  the  stars 

Must  daily  lose  their  light ; 
The  moon  will  veil  her  in  the  shade^ 

The  sun  will  set  at  night. 
The  sun  may  set,  but  constant  love 

Will  shine  when  he's  away  ; 
So  that  dull  night  is  never  night, 

And  day  is  brighter  day. 


ODE  TO  THE  MOON, 


Mother  of  light !  how  fairly  dost  thou  go 
Over  those  hoary  crests,  divinely  led  ! — 
Art  thou  that  huntress  of  the  silver  bow 
Fabled  of  old  ?     Or  rather,  dost  thou  tread 
Those  cloudy  summits  thence  to  gaze  below, 
Like  the  wild  chamois  from  her  Alpine  snow, 
Where  hunter  never  climb'd, — secure  from  dread  f 
How  many  antique  fancies  have  I  read 
Of  that  mild  presence  !  and  how  many  wrought  I 

Wondrous  and  bright, 

Upon  the  silver  light. 
Chasing  fair  figures  with  the  artist,  Thought  1 

II. 

What  art  thou  like  ? — Sometimes  I  see  thee  ride 

A  far-bound  galley  on  its  perilous  way, 

Whilst  breezy  waves  toss  up  their  silvery  spray  ;— 

Sometimes  behold  thee  glide, 
Cluster'd  by  all  thy  family  of  stars. 
Like  a  lone  widow,  through  the  welkin  wide, 
Whose  pallid  cheek  the  midnight  sorrow  mars  ;-• 
Sometimes  I  watch  thee  on  from  steep  to  steep, 
Timidly  liglited  by  thy  vestal  torch. 
Till  in  some  Latmian  cave  I  see  thee  creep, 
To  catch  the  young  Endymion  asleep, — 
Leaving  thy  splendour  at  the  jagged  porch  !— 

III. 

Oh,  thou  art  beautiful,  howe'er  it  be — 
Huntress,  or  Dian,  or  whatever  named  ; 
And  he  the  veriest  Pagan  that  first  framed 
A  silver  idol,  and  ne'er  worshipp'd  thee  1 


ODE  to  THE  MOON.  363 

It  is  too  late,  or  thou  shouldst  have  my  knee  ; 
Too  late  now  for  the  old  Ephesian  vows, 
And  not  divine  the  crescent  on  thy  brows  ! — 
Yet,  call  thee  nothing  but  the  mere  mild  Moon, 

Behind  those  chestnut  boughs. 
Casting  their  dappled  shadows  at  my  feet, 
I  will  be  grateful  for  that  simple  boon, 
In  many  a  thoughtful  verse  and  anthem  sweet. 
And  bless  thy  dainty  face  whene'er  we  meet. 

IV. 

In  nights  far  gone, — ay,  far  away  and  dead,— 

Before  Care  fretted  with  a  lidless  eye, — 

I  was  thy  wooer  on  my  little  bed, 

Letting  the  early  hours  of  rest  go  by, 

To  see  thee  flood  the  heaven  with  milky  light, 

And  feed  thy  snow-white  swans,  before  I  slept ; 

For  thou  wert  then  purveyor  of  my  dreams, — 

Thou  wert  the  fairies'  armourer,  that  kept 

Their  burnish'd  helms,  and  crowns,  and  corselets  bright. 

Their  spears,  and  glittering  mails  ; 
And  ever  thou  didst  spill  in  winding  streams 

Sparkles  and  midnight  gleams, 
For  fishes  to  new  gloss  their  argent  scales  ! 

V. 

Why  sighs  ? — why  creeping  tears  ? — why  clasped  hands  ?— ■ 

Is  it  to  count  the  boy's  expended  dower  ? 

That  fairies  since  have  broke  their  gifted  wands  ? 

That  young  Delight,  like  any  o'erblown  flower. 

Gave,  one  by  one,  its  sweet  leaves  to  the  ground  ? — • 

Why  then,  fair  Moon,  for  all  thou  mark'st  no  hour. 

Thou  art  a  sadder  dial  to  Old  Time 

Than  ever  I  have  found 
On  sunny  garden-plot,  or  moss-grown  tower, 
Motto'd  with  stern  and  melancholy  rhyme. 

VI. 

Why  should  I  grieve  for  this  ? — Oh,  I  must  yearn, 

Whilst  Time,  conspirator  with  Memory, 

Keeps  his  cold  ashes  in  an  ancient  urn, 

Richly  emboss'd  with  childhood's  revelry. 

With  leaves  and  cluster'd  fruits,  and  flowers  eteme 

(Eternal  to  the  world,  though  not  to  me). 

Aye  there  will  those  brave  sports  and  blossoms  b^ 

The  deathless  wreath,  and  undecay'd  festoon, 

When  I  am  hearsed  within, — 
Less  than  the  pallid  primrose  to  the  Moon, 
That  now  she  watches  through  a  vapour  thin. 


3^4  ^^ 


VIL 

So  let  it  be  : — Before  I  lived  to  sigh. 
Thou  wert  in  Avon  and  a  thousand  rills, 
Beautiful  Orb  !  and  so,  whene'er  I  lie 
Trodden,  thou  wilt  be  gazing  from  thy  hills. 
Blest  be  thy  loving  light,  where'er  it  spills, 
And  blessed  thy  fair  face,  O  Mother  mild  ! 
Still  shine,  the  soul  of  rivers  as  they  run, 
Still  lend  thy  lonely  lamp  to  lovers  fond, 
And  blend  their  plighted  shadows  into  one  ! 
Still  smile  at  even  on  the  bedded  child. 
And  close  his  eyelids  with  thy  silver  wand  !- 


TO 


Welcome,  dear  Heart,  and  a  most  kind  good-morrow  ; 
The  day  is  gloomy,  but  our  looks  shall  shine : — 
Flowers  I  have  none  to  give  thee,  but  1  borrow 
Their  sweetness  in  a  verse  to  speak  for  thine. 

Here  are  red  Roses,  gather'd  at  thy  cheeks,— 
The  white  were  all  too  happy  to  look  white  : 
For  love  the  Rose,  for  faith  the  Lily  speaks  ; 
It  withers  in  false  hands,  but  here  'tis  bright  1 

Dost  love  sweet  Hyacinth  ?     Its  scented  leaf 
Curls  manifold, — all  love's  delights  blow  double  : 
'Tis  said  this  floweret  is  inscribed  with  grief,— 
But  let  that  hint  of  a  forgotten  trouble. 

I  pluck'd  the  Primrose  at  night's  dewy  noon  ; 
Like  Hope,  it  show'd  its  blossoms  in  the  ni^ht ; — 
*Twas,  like  Endymion,  watching  for  the  Moon  ! 
And  here  are  Sunflowers,  amorous  of  light ! 

These  golden  Buttercups  are  April's  seal,— 
The  Daisy  stars  her  constellations  be  : 
These  grew  so  lowly,  I  was  forced  to  kneel. 
Therefore  I  pluck  no  Daisies  but  for  thee  1 

Here's  Daisies  for  the  morn,  Primrose  for  gloom, 
Pansies  and  Roses  for  the  noontide  hours : — 
A  wight  once  made  a  dial  of  their  bloom, — 
So  may  thy  life  be  measured  out  by  flowers  1 


365 


THE  FORSAKEN, 

The  dead  are  in  their  silent  gravesi 
And  the  dew  is  cold  above, 
And  the  living  weep  and  sigh 
Over  dust  that  once  was  love. 

Once  I  only  wept  the  dead, 

But  now  the  living  cause  my  pain  : 

How  couldst  thou  steal  me  from  my  tears, 

To  leave  me  to  my  tears  again  ? 

My  mother  rests  beneath  the  sod,— 
Her  rest  is  calm  and  very  deep  : 
I  wish'd  that  she  could  see  our  loves,— 
But  now  I  gladden  in  her  sleep. 

Last  night  unbound  my  raven  locks, 
The  morning  saw  them  turn'd  to  grey  ; 
Once  they  were  black  and  well  beloved, 
But  thou  art  changed, — and  so  are  they  I 

The  useless  lock  I  gave  thee  once, 

To  gaze  upon  and  think  of  me. 

Was  ta'en  with  smiles, — but  this  was  tore 

In  sorrow  that  I  send  to  thee  1 


A  UTUMN. 

The  Autumn  is  old, 

The  sere  leaves  are  flying  ;— 

He  hath  gather'd  up  gold. 

And  now  he  is  dying  ; —  ^ 

Old  age,  begin  sighing  ! 

The  vintage  is  ripe, 
The  harvest  is  heaping  ;— 
But  some  that  have  sow'd 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping;— 
Poor  wretch,  fall  a-weeping  I 

The  year's  in  the  wane, 
There  is  nothing  adorning. 
The  night  has  no  eve, 
And  the  day  has  no  morning;— 
Cold  winter  gives  warning. 

The  rivers  run  chill, 

The  red  sun  is  sinking, 

And  I  am  grown  old, 

And  life  is  fast  shrinking  ;— 

Here's  enow  for  sad  thinking  I 


3« 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 

Come  let  us  set  our  careful  breasts. 
Like  Philomel,  against  the  thorn, 
To  aggravate  the  inward  grief 
That  makes  her  accents  so  forlorn. 
The  world  has  many  cruel  points, 
Whereby  our  bosoms  have  been  torn, 
And  there  are  dainty  themes  of  grief, 
In  sadness  to  outlast  the  morn, — 
True  honour's  dearth,  affection's  death, 
Neglectful  pride,  and  cankering  scorn, 
With  all  the  piteous  tales  that  tears 
Have  water'd  since  the  world  was  born. 

The  world  ! — it  is  a  wilderness. 
Where  tears  are  hung  on  every  tree; 
For  thus  my  gloomy  phantasy 
Makes  all  things  weep  with  me  ! 
Come  let  us  sit  and  watch  the  sky, 
And  fancy  clouds  where  no  clouds  be  ; 
Grief  is  enough  to  blot  the  eye, 
And  make  heaven  black  with  misery. 
Why  should  birds  sing  such  merry  note^ 
Unless  they  were  more  blest  than  we  ? 
No  sorrow  ever  chokes  their  throats, 
Except  sweet  nightingale  ;  for  she 
Was  born  to  pain  our  hearts  the  more 
With  her  sad  melody. 
Why  shines  the  sun,  except  that  he 
Makes  gloomy  nooks  for  Grief  to  hide, 
And  pensive  shades  for  Melancholy, 
When  all  the  earth  is  bright  beside  ? 
Let  clay  wear  smiles,  and  green  grass  wave, 
Mirth  shall  not  win  us  back  again, 
Whilst  man  is  made  of  his  own  grave, 
And  fairest  clouds  but  gilded  rain  1 

I  saw  my  mother  in  her  shroud, 

Her  cheek  was  cold  and  very  pale; 

And  ever  since  I've  look'd  on  all 

As  creatures  only  doom'd  to  fail ! 

Why  do  buds  ope,  except  to  die? 

Ay,  let  us  watch  the  roses  wither, 

And  think  of  our  loves'  cheeks  ; 

And  oh,  how  quickly  time  doth  fly 

To  bring  Death's  winter  hither  ! 

Minutes,  hours,  days,  and  weeks, 

Months,  years,  and  ages,  shrink  to  nought; 

An  age  past  is  but  a  thought ! 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY.  ,.         3*7 

Ay,  let  us  think  of  him  awhile, 

That,  with  a  coffin  for  a  boat, 

Rows  daily  o'er  the  Stygian  moat, 

And  for  our  table  choose  a  tomb  : 

There's  dark  enough  in  any  skull 

To  charge  with  black  a  raven  plume ; 

And  for  the  saddest  funeral  thoughts 

A  winding-sheet  hath  ample  room, 

Where  Death,  with  his  keen-pointed  style, 

Hath  writ  the  common  doom. 

How  wide  the  yew-tree  spreads  its  gloom. 

And  o'er  the  dead  lets  fall  its  dew, 

As  if  in  tears  it  wept  for  them, 

The  many  human  families 

That  sleep  around  its  stem  ! 

How  cold  the  dead  have  made  these  stones, 

With  natural  drops  kept  ever  wet ! 

Lo  I  here  the  best,  the  worst,  the  world 

Doth  now  remember  or  forget, 

Are  in  one  common  ruin  hurl'd, 

And  love  and  hate  are  calmly  met ; 

The  loveliest  eyes  that  ever  shone. 

The  fairest  hands,  and  locks  of  jet. 

Is't  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls, 

And  fill  our  eyes,  that  we  have  set 

Our  love  upon  a  rose's  leaf, 

Our  hearts  upon  a  violet  ? 

Blue  eyes,  red  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet ; 

And,  sometimes,  at  their  swift  decay 

Beforehand  we  must  fret : 

The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again  ; 

But  love  may  haunt  the  grave  of  love, 

And  watch  the  mould  in  vain. 

Oh,  clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine. 

And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss  ; 

For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 

A  thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this ; 

Forgive,  if  somewhile  1  forget, 

In  woe  to  come,  the  present  bliss. 

As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 

Her  flowers  at  the  sigiit  of  Dis, 

Even  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss. 

The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest  shad^ 

And  there  is  even  a  happiness 

That  makes  the  heart  afraid  ! 

Now  let  us  with  a  spell  invoke 
The  full-orb'd  moon  to  grieve  our  eyes ; 
Not  bright,  not  bright,  but,  with  a  cloud 
Lapp'd  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 


368  SOArjVBT. 


All  pale  and  dim,  as  if  from  rest 

The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sun 

Had  crept  into  the  skies. 

The  Moon  !  she  is  the  source  of  sighs, 

The  very  face  to  make  us  sad  ; 

If  but  to  think  in  other  times 

The  same  calm,  quiet  look  she  had. 

As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base 

Of  vile  and  mean,  of  fierce  and  bad  ; 

The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in  streams. 

The  fairy  lamp  that  charm'd  the  lad  : 

For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 

She  taunts  men's  brains,  and  makes  them  mad< 

All  things  are  touch'd  with  Melancholy, 
Born  of  the  secret  soul's  mistrust, 
To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 
Weigh'd  down  with  vile  degraded  dust  ; 
Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 
Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust, 
Like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  the  May, 
Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 
Oh,  give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just, 
Her  sighs,  and  tears,  and  musings  holy  1 
There  is  no  music  in  the  life 
That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely  ; 
There's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth 
But  has  its  chord  in  Melancholy. 


OS  MISTRESS   NICELY,   A   PATTERN    FOR   HOUSEKEEPERS. 
Written  after  seeing  Mrs  Davenport  in  the  character  at  Covent  Garden, 

She  was  a  woman  peerless  in  her  station. 

With  household  virtues  wedded  to  her  name  ; 

Spotless  in  linen,  grass-bleach'd  in  her  fame, 
And  pure  and  clear-starch'd  in  her  conversation  ; — 
Thence  in  my  Castle  of  Imagination 

She  dwells  for  evermore,  the  dainty  dame, 

To  keep  all  airy  draperies  from  shame, 
And  all  dream  furnitures  in  preservation  : 

There  waiketh  she  with  keys  quite  silver  bright. 
In  perfect  hose,  and  shoes  of  seemly  black, 

Apron  i:nd  stomacher  of  lily-white. 
And  decent  order  follows  in  her  track  ; 

The  burnis'n'd  plate  grows  lustrous  in  her  sight. 
And  poUsh'd  floors  and  tables  shine  her  back. 


369 

SONNET. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  VOLUME  OF  SHAKESPEAM: 

How  bravely  Autumn  paints  upon  the  sky 

The  gorgeous  fame  of  Summer  which  is  fled  I 

Hues  of  all  flowers  that  in  their  ashes  lie, 

Trophied  in  that  fair  light  whereon  they  fed, 

Tulip,  and  hyacinth,  and  sweet  rose  red, — 

Like  exhalations  from  the  leafy  mould, 

Look  here  how  honour  glorifies  the  dead, 

And  warms  their  scutcheons  with  a  glance  of  gold  ' 

Such  is  the  memory  of  poets  old, 

Who  on  Parnassus'  hill  have  bloom'd  elate  ; 

Now  they  are  laid  under  their  marbles  cold, 

And  tum'd  to  clay,  whereof  they  were  create  ; 

But  God  Apollo  hath  them  all  enroll'd, 

And  blazon'd  on  the  very  clouds  of  fate  1 

SONNET. 

TO  FANCY. 

Most  delicate  Ariel !  submissive  thin^, 
Won  by  the  mind's  high  magic  to  its  best,— 
Invisible  embassy,  or  secret  guest, — 
Weighing  the  light  air  on  a  lighter  wing  ; — 
Whether  into  the  midnight  moon,  to  bring 
Illuminate  visions  to  the  eye  of  rest, — 
Oi  rich  romances  from  the  florid  West, — 
Or  to  the  sea,  for  mystic  whispering, — 
Still  by  thy  charm'd  allegiance  to  the  will, 
The  fruitful  wishes  prosper  in  the  brain, 
As  by  the  fingering  of  fairy  skill, — 
Moonlight,  and  waters,  and  soft  music's  strain, 
Odours,  and  blooms,  and  viy  Miranda's  smile, 
Making  this  dull  world  an  enchanted  isle. 


SONNET. 

TO  AN  ENTHUSIAST. 

VOUNG  ardent  soul,  graced  with  fair  Nature's  truth. 
Spring  warmth  of  heart,  and  fervency  of  mind. 
And  still  a  large  late  love  of  all  thy  kind, 
Spite  of  the  world's  cold  practice  and  Time's  tooth,— 
For  all  these  gifts,  I  know  not,  in  fair  sooth, 
Whether  to  give  thee  joy,  or  bid  thee  blind 
Thine  eyes  with  tears, — that  thou  has  not  resign'd 
The  passionate  fire  and  freshness  of  thy  youth  : 

2  A 


37©  SONNETS. 

For  as  the  current  of  thy  life  shall  flow. 
Gilded  by  shine  of  sun  or  shadow-stain'd, 
Through  flowery  valley  or  unwholesome  fen, 
Thrice  blessed  in  thy  joy,  or  in  thy  woe 
Thrice  cursed  of  thy  race, — thou  art  ordain'd 
To  share  beyond  the  lot  of  common  men. 


SONNET. 

It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 

This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight  | 

That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply 

In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  sh  ill  set  in  night  ; 

That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite, 

And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow  ; 

That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  sprite 

Be  lapp'd  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below  ; — 

It  is  not  death  to  know  this, — but  to  know 

That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 

In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 

So  duly  and  so  oft, — and  when  grass  waves 

Over  the  passed-away,  there  may  be  then 

No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


SONNET. 

By  every  sweet  tradition  of  true  hearts, 

Graven  by  Time,  in  love  with  his  own  lore  J 

By  all  old  mart\  rdoms  and  antique  smarts, 

"Wherein  Love  died  to  be  alive  the  more  ; 

Yea,  by  the  sad  impression  on  the  shore 

Left  by  the  drown'd  Leander,  to  endear 

That  coast  for  ever,  where  the  billow's  roar 

Moaneth  for  pity  in  the  Poet's  ear  ; 

By  Hero's  faith,  and  the  foreboding  tear 

That  quench'd  her  brand's  last  twinkle  m  its  fall; 

By  Sappho's  leap,  and  the  low  rustling  fear 

That  sigh'd  around  her  flight  ; — I  swear  by  all. 

The  world  shall  find  such  pattern  in  my  act, 

As  if  Love's  great  examples  still  were  lack'd. 


SONNET. 

ON  RECEIVING  A  GIFT. 

Look  how  the  golden  ocean  shines  above 
Its  pebbly  stones,  and  magnifies  their  girth  ; 
So  does  the  bright  and  blessed  light  of  Love 
Its  own  things  glorify,  and  raise  their  v/orth. 


SONNETS. 

As  weeds  seem  flowers  beneath  the  flattering  brine, 
And  stones  like  gems,  and  gems  as  gems  indeed, 
Even  so  our  tokens  shine  ;  nay,  they  outshine 
Pebbles  and  pearls,  and  gems  and  coral  weed ; 
For  where  be  ocean  waves  but  half  so  clear, 
So  calmly  constant,  and  so  kindly  warm, 
As  Love's  most  mild  and  gl(>wing  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  dregs  to  be  uptiirn'd  by  storm? 
Thus,  sweet,  thy  gracious  };ifts  are  gifts  of  price. 
And  more  than  gold  to  doting  Avarice. 


SONNET. 

The  curse  of  Adam,  the  old  curse  of  all, 

Though  I  inherit  in  this  feverish  life 

Of  worldly  toil,  vain  wishes,  and  hard  strife, 

And  fruitless  thought,  in  Care's  eternal  thrall, 

Yet  more  sweet  honey  than  of  bitter  gall 

I  taste,  through  thee,  my  Eva,  my  sweet  wife. 

Then  what  was  Man's  lost  Paradise  ! — how  rife 

Of  bliss,  since  love  is  with  him  in  his  fall ! 

Such  as  our  own  pure  passion  still  might  frame, 

Of  this  fair  earth  and  its  deli.L;htful  bowers, 

If  no  fell  sorrow,  like  the  serpent,  came 

To  trail  its  venom  o'er  the  sweetest  flowers  ;^ 

But  oh  !  as  many  and  such  tears  are  ours, 

As  only  should  be  shed  for  guilt  and  shame  i 


SONNET. 

Love,  dearest  Lady,  such  as  I  would  speal^ 
Lives  not  within  the  humour  of  the  eye  ; — 
Not  being  but  an  outward  phantasy, 
That  skims  the  surface  of  a  tinted  cheek, — 
Else  it  would  wane  with  beauty,  and  grow  weak, 
As  if  the  rose  made  summer, — and  so  lie 
Amongst  the  perishable  things  that  die, 
Unlike  the  love  which  I  would  give  and  seek  : 
Whose  health  is  of  no  hue — to  feel  decay 
With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy  prime. 
Love  is  its  own  great  loveliness  alway, 
And  takes  new  lustre  from  the  touch  of  time ; 
Its  bough  owns  no  December  and  no  May, 
But  bears  its  blossom  into  Winter's  clime. 


371 


m 


SONNET. 


There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 
There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 
In  the  cold  grave— under  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  hfe  is  found, 

Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound  ; 
No  voice  is  hush'd— no  life  treads  silently, 
But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 

That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground  : 

But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 
Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been. 

Though  the  dun  fox  or  wild  hyena  calls, 
And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between, 

Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan, — 

There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  aionfc 


CONTRIBUTIONS 


TO 


«*THE    GEM."* 


A  WIDOW 

HATH  always  been  a  mark  for  mockery  : — a  standing  butt  for  wit 
to  level  at.  Jest  after  jest  hath  been  huddled  upon  her  close 
cap,  and  stuck,  like  burrs,  upon  her  weeds.  Her  sables  are  a  perpetual 
«'  Black  Joke." 

Satirists — prose  and  verse — have  made  merry  with  her  bereavements. 
She  is  a  stock  character  on  the  stage.  Farce  bottleth  up  her  crocodile 
tears,  or  labelleth  her  empty  lachrymatories.  Comedy  mocketh  her 
precocious  flirtations — Tragedy  even  girdeth  at  her  frailty,  and  twit- 
teth  her  with  "  the  funeral  baked  meats  coldly  furnishing  forth  the 
marriage  tables." 

I  confess,  when  I  called  the  other  day  on  my  kinswoman  G. — then 
in  the  second  week  of  her  widowhood — and  saw  her  sitting,  her  voung 
boy  by  her  side,  in  her  recent  sables,  I  felt  unable  to  retioncile  her 
estate  with  any  risible  associations.  The  lady  with  a  skeleton  moiety 
— in  the  old  print,  in  Bowles's  old  shop-window — seemed  but  a  type 
of  her  condition.  Her  husband — a  whole  hemisphere  in  love's  world 
— was  deficient.  One  complete  side — her  left — was  death-stricken. 
It  was  a  matrimonial  paralysis,  unprovocative  of  laughter.  I  could  as 
soon  have  tittered  at  one  of  those  melancholy  objects  that  drag  theii 
poor  dead-alive  bodies  about  our  streets. 

It  seems  difficult  to  account  for  the  popular  prejudice  against  lone 
women.  There  is  a  majority,  I  trust,  of  such  honest,  decorous  mourn- 
ers as  my  kinswoman  :  yet  are  widows,  like  the  Hebrew,  a  proverb 
and  a  byeword  amongst  nations.  From  the  first  putting  on  of  the  sooty 
garments,  they  become  a  stock  joke — chimney-sweep  or  blackamoor 
is  not  surer — by  mere  virtue  of  their  nigritude. 

*  The  Gem  :  a  Literary  Annual.  Edited  by  Thomas  Hood,  Esq.  London  I 
W.  Marshall,  1829. 


374  THE  FAREWELL, 

Are  the  wanton  amatory  glances  of  a  few  pairs  of  graceless  eyes, 
twinkling  tlirough  tlieir  cunning  waters,  to  reflect  so  evil  a  light  on  a 
whole  community  ?  Verilv  the  sad  benighted  orbs  of  that  noble  relict 
— the  Lady  Rnchel  Russell — blinded  through  unserene  drops  for  hef 
dead  Lord, — might  atone  for  all  such  oglings  ! 

Are  the  traditional  freaks  of  a  Dame  of  Ephesus,  or  a  Wife  of 
Bath,  or  a  Queen  of  Denmark,  to  cast  so  broad  a  shadow  over  a  whole 
sisterhood  ?  There  must  be,  methinks,  some  more  general  infirmity — 
common,  probably,  to  all  Eve-kind — to  justify  so  sweeping  a  stigma. 

Does  the  satiric  spirit,  perhaps,  institute  splenetic  comparisons  be- 
tween the  lofty  poetical  pretensions  of  posthumous  tenderness  and 
their  fulfilment  ?  The  sentiments  of  Love  especially  affect  a  high  heroi- 
cal  pitch,  of  which  the  human  performance  can  present,  at  best,  but 
a  burlesque  parody.  A  widow,  that  hath  lived  only  for  her  husband, 
should  die  with  him.  She  is  flesh  of  his  flesh,  and  bone  of  his  bone  ; 
and  it  is  not  seemly  for  a  mere  rib  to  be  his  survivor.  The  p^rose  of 
her  practice  accords  not  with  the  poetry  of  her  professions.  She  hath 
done  with  the  world, — and  you  meet  her  in  Regent  Street.  Earth  hath 
now  notliing  left  for  her — but  she  swears  and  administers.  She  cannot 
survive  him — and  invests  in  the  Z^«^  Annuities. 

The  romantic  fancy  resents,  and  the  satiric  spirit  records,  these 
discrepancies.  By  the  conjugal  theory  itself  there  ought  to  be  no 
widows  ;  and.  accordingly,  a  class  that,  by  our  milder  manners,  is 
merely  ridiculed,  on  the  ruder  banks  of  the  Ganges  is  literally  roasted? 


THE  FAREWELL. 

TO  A  FRENCH  AIR. 

Fare  thee  well,  In  the  night, 

Gabrielle  !  Ere  the  fight, 

Whilst  I  join  France,  In  the  niglit. 

With  bright  cuirass  and  lance  1  I'll  think  of  thee  1 
Trumpets  swell.  And  in  prayer, 

Gabrielle  !  Lady  fair  ! 

War-horses  prance,  In  thy  prayer, 

And  cavaliers  advance  I  Then  think  of  me  1 

Death  may  knell, 

Gabrielle  ! 
Where  my  plumes  dance, 
By  arquebuss  or  lance  1 

Then  farewell, 

Gabrielle  ! 
Take  my  last  glance  ! 
Fair  Miracle  of  France  ! 

•  The  above  was  written  in  imitation  of  the  style  of  Charles  Lamb,  and  to 
Tcn.ler  the  hoax  complete,  was  actually  signed  with  his  name. 


375 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM, 

'TwAS  in  the  prime  of  summer-time, 

All  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school : 
There  were  some  that  ran,  and  some  that  leapt, 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

And  souls  untouched  by  sin  ; 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sua 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran, 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man  ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 
To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease  ; 

So  he  lean'd  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees  ! 

Leaf  after  leaf,  he  turn'd  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside  ; 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 

In  the  golden  eventide  : 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome  ; 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strain'd  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fix'd  the  brazen  hasp  : 
*  O  God  !  could  I  so  close  mv  mind. 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  ! 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright,    . 

Some  moody  turns  he  took, — 
Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  meady 

And  past  a  shady  nook, — 
And,  lo  !  he  saw  a  little  boy 

That  pored  upon  a  book  ! 


376  THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM, 

"  My  gentle  lad,  what  is't  you  read — 

Romance  or  fairy  fable  ? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ? " 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance,«» 

«  It  is  '  The  Death  of  Abel.' " 


The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain, — 
Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place. 

Then  slowly  back  again  ; 
An4  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad. 

And  talk'd  with  him  of  Cain  ; 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  me% 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves  ; 
Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves  ; 
Of  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn. 

And  murders  done  in  caves ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 

Shriek  upward  from  the  sod, — 
Aye,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 

To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 
And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts, 

Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God  ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain, 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain  : 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain  1 

"  And  well,"  quoth  he,  "  I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme, — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe — 
Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why?     Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 
A  murder  in  a  dream  1 

"One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong— 

A  feeble  man,  and  old  : 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field, — 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold  : 
•Now  here,'  said  I,  '  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold  1' 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.  377 

"Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  sticky 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife,— 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  : 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone ! — 


•  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone^ 

That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 
And  yet  I  fear'd  him  all  the  more 

For  lying  there  so  still : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look 

That  murder  could  not  kill  1 

**  And  lo  !  the  universal  air 

Seem'd  lit  with  ghastly  flame, — 
Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyci 
Were  looking  down  in  blame : 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  the  hand, 
And  call'd  upon  his  name  1 

**  O  God  !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 
Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 

But  when  I  touch'd  the  lifeless  clay. 
The  blood  gush'd  out  amain  1 

For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 
Was  scorching  in  my  brain  I 

''My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price  : 
A  dozen  times  I  groan'd  ;  the  dead 

Had  never  groan'd  but  twice  I 

**And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky. 
From  the  heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice — the  awful  voice 
Of  the  Blood-Avenging  Sprite  : — 

*Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dea(^ 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight  1' 

**  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream, — 
A  sluggish  water,  black  as  in^ 

The  depth  was  so  extreme.— 
My  gentle  Boy,  remember  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream  I 


378  THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

•*  Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plmige^ 

And  vanish'd  in  the  pool ; 
Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands, 

And  wash'd  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young 

That  evening  in  the  school ! — 

*'  O  Heaven  !  to  think  of  their  white  soull^ 
And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 

I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 
Nor  join  in  Evening  Hymn  : 

Like  a  Devil  of  the  Pit,  I  seem'd, 
'Mid  Holy  Cherubim  ! 

"And  Peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all. 
And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 

But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain 
That  lighted  me  to  bed  ; 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round. 
With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 

**A11  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep  ; 
My  fever'd  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep  : 
For  Sin  had  render'd  unto  her 

The  Keys  of  Hell  to  keep  1 

**  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 
From  weary  chime  to  chime. 

With  one  besetting  horrid  hmt. 
That  rack'd  me  all  the  time, — ■ 

A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 
Fierce  impulse  unto  crime  1 

*'  One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  mads 
All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ; 

Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 
Did  that  temptation  crave,— 

Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 
The  Dead  Man  in  his  grave  1 

**  Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky. 
And  soui^ht  the  black  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye  ; 
And  I  saw  the  Dead  in  the  river-bed. 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry  ! 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.  37f 

"Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 

The  dewdrop  from  its  wing  ; 
But  I  never  mark'd  its  morning  flight, 

I  never  heard  it  sing  : 
For  I  was  stooping  once  again 

Under  the  horrid  thing. 

**  With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase^ 

I  took  him  up  and  ran, — 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began  : 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leave* 

I  hid  the  murder'd  man  ! 


"And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 
But  my  thought  was  other  where  ; 

As  soon  as  the  midday  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there  : 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leave*, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

•Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refused  to  keep  : 
Or  land,  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep  ! 

**  So  wills  the  fierce  Avenging  Sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 
Ay,  though  he's  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones. 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh— 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones  1 

*  O  God  !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again — again,  with  a  dizzy  brain. 

The  human  life  1  take  ; 
And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  ho^ 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

"And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow  ; 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul, — 

It  stands  before  me  now  ! " — 
The  fearful  boy  look'd  up,  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  his  brow  1 


S80  A  MAY-DAY. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 
The  urchin  eyelids  kiss'd, 

Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lyni^ 
Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 

And  Eugene  Aram  walk'd  between, 
With  gyves  upon  iis  wrist.* 


OJV  A  PICTURE  OF  HERO  AND  LEANDER, 

Why,  Lover,  why  Why,  Cupid,  why- 
Such  a  water-rover  ?  Make  the  passage  brighter? 
Would  she  love  thee  more  Were  not  any  boat 
For  coming  half  seas  overt  Better  than  a  lighter  t 

Why,  Lady,  why  Why,  Maiden,  why 

So  in  love  with  dipping?  So  intrusive  standing? 

Must  a  lad  of  Greece,  Must  thou  be  on  the  stair 

Come  all  over  dripping  f  When  he's  on  the  landing  f 


A  MAY-DAY. 

I  KNOW  not  what  idle  schemer  or  mad  wag  put  such  a  folly  into 
the  head  of  my  Lady  Rasherly,  but  she  resolved  to  ci  lebrate  a 
May-day  after  the  old  fashion,  and  convert  Porkington  Park — her 
Hampshire  Leasowes — into  a  new  Arcadia.  Such  revivals  have 
always  come  to  a  bad  end :  the  Golden  Age  is  not  to  be  regilt ; 
Pastoral  is  gone  out,  and  Pan  extinct — Pans  will  not  last  for  ever. 

But  Lady  Rasherly's  fete  was  fixed.  A  large  order  "as  sent  to 
Inj;ram,  of  rustic  celebrity,  for  nubbly  sofas  and  crocked  chairs  ;  a 

letter  was  dispatched  to  the  Manager  of  the  P h  Theatre,  begging 

a  loan  from  the  dramatic  wardrobe  ;  and  old  Jenkins,  the  steward, 
was  sent  through  the  village  to  assemble  as  many,  male  and  female, 
of  the  barn-door  kind,  as  he  could  muster.  Happy  for  tlie  Lady  had 
her  Hampshire  peasantry  been  more  pig-headed  and  hoggishly  untract- 
able,  like  the  staple  animal  of  the  county  :  but  the  time  came,  and 
the  tenants.  Happy  for  her  had  the  good-natured  manager  excused 
himself  with  a  plea  that  the  cottage-hats,  and  blue  boddices,  and 
russet  skirts  were  bespoke,  for  that  very  night,  by  Rosina  and  her 
villagers.  But  the  day  came,  and  the  dresses.  I  am  told  that  old 
Jenkins  and  his  helpmate  had  a  world  of  trouble  in  the  distribution 
of  the  borrowed  plumes :  this  maiden  turning  up  a  pug-nose,  still 
pugger,  at  a  faded  boddice  ;  that  damsel  thrusting  out  a  pair  of 
original  pouting  lips,  still  more  spout-like,  at  a  rusty  ribbon  ;  carroty 

*  The  late  Admiral  Bumey  went  to  school  at  an  establishment  where  the 
onhappy  Eugene  Aram  was  usiier,  subsequent  to  his  crime.  The  Admiral 
stated,  that  Aram  was  generally  liked  by  the  boys ;  and  that  he  used  to  dis- 
course to  them  about  murder,  in  somewhat  of  the  spirit  which  is  attributed 
to  him  in  the  poem. — \^A'ote  by  the  Author.'] 


A  MA  YD  A  r.  381 

Celias  wanted  more  roses  in  their  hair,  and  dumpy  Delias  more  flounces 
in  their  petticoats.  There  is  a  natural  tact,  however,  in  womankind 
as  to  matters  of  dress,  that  made  them  look  tolerably  when  all  was 
done  :  but  pray  except  from  this  praise  the  gardener's  daughter,  Dolly 
Blossom, — a  born  sloven,  with  her  horticultural  hose,  which  she  had 
pruned  so  often  at  top  to  graft  at  bottom,  that,  from  long  stockings, 
they  had  dwindled  into  short  socks  ;  and  it  seemed  as  if,  by  a  similar 
process,  she  had  coaxed  her  natural  calves  into  her  ankles.  The  men 
were  less  fortunate  in  their  toilette  :  they  looked  slack  in  their  tights, 
and  tight  in  their  slacks  ;  to  say  nothing  of  Johnny  Giles,  who  was  so 
tight  all  over,  that  he  looked  as  if  he  had  stolen  his  clothes,  and  the 
clothes,  turning  King's  evidence,  were  going  to  '■'■split  upon  him." 

In  the  meantime,  the  retamers  at  the  Park  h?«l  nst  been  idle.  The 
old  mast  was  taken  down  from  the  old  barn,  andjSfnon&d  of  its  weather- 
cock, did  duty  as  a  May-pole.  The  trees  and  shmbs  were  hung  with 
artificial  garlands  ;  and  a  large  marquee  made  an  agreeable  contrast, 
in  canvas,  with  the  long  lawn.  An  extempore  wooden  arbour  had 
likewise  been  erected  for  the  May  Queen  ;  and  here  stood  my  Lady 
Rasherly  with  her  daughters  :  my  Lady,  with  a  full-moon  face  and  a 
half-moon  tiara,  was  Diana  ;  the  young  ladies  represented  her  nymphs, 
and  they  had  all  bows  and  arrows,  Spanish  hats  and  feathers,  Lincoln 
green  spensers  and  slashed  sleeves, — the  uniform  of  the  Porkington 
Archery.  There  were,  moreover,  six  younger  young  ladies — a  loan 
from  the  parish  school — who  were  to  be  the  immediate  attendants  on 
her  Sylvan  Majesty,  and,  as  they  expressed  it  in  their  own  simple  Doric, 
"to  shy  flowers  at  her/u/ !" 

And  now  the  nymphs  and  swains  began  to  assemble  :  Damon  and 
Phillis,  Strephon  and  Amaryllis — a  nomenclature  not  a  little  puzzling 
to  the  performers,  for  Delia  answered  to  Damon,  and  Chloe  instead 
of  Colin, — 

"And  though  I  called  another,  Abra  came." 

But  I  must  treat  you  with  a  few  personalities.  Damon  was  one 
Darius  Dobbs.  He  was  entrusted  with  a  fine  tinsel  crook  and  half- 
a-dozen  sheep,  which  he  was  puzzled  to  keep,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  to 
the  lawn  ;  for  Corydon,  his  fellow-shepherd,  had  quietly  hung  up  his 
pastoral  emblem,  and  walked  off  to  the  sign  of  the  Rose  and  Crown. 
Poor  Damon  1  there  he  sat  looking  the  very  original  of  Philips's  line, — 

"  Ah,  silly  I,  more  silly  than  my  sheep  : " 

And,  to  add  to  his  perplexity,  he  could  not  help  seeing  and  hearing 
Mary  Jenks,  his  own  sweetheart,  who,  having  no  lambs  to  keep,  was 
romping  where  she  would,  and  treating  whom  she  would  with  a  kind- 
ness by  no  means  sneaking.     Poor  Darius  Dobbs  ! 

Gregory  Giles  was  Colin  ;  and  he  was  sadly  hampered  with  "  two 
hands  out  of  employ  ;  "  for,  after  feeling  up  his  back,  and  down  his 
bosom,  and  about  his  hips,  he  had  discovered  that,  to  save  time  and 
trouble,  his  stage-clothes  had  been  made  without  pockets.    But 

**  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 
For  idle  hands  to  do  ; " 


S82  A  MAY-DAY. 

and,  accordingly,  he  soon  set  Colin's  fingers  to  work  so  busily,  that 
thev  twiddled  ofif  all  the  buttons  from  his  borrowed  jacket. 

Strephon  was  nothing  particulnr,  only  a  sky-blue  body  on  a  pair  of 
chocolate-coloured  legs.  But  Lubin  was  a  jewel  !  He  had  formerly 
been  a  private  in  the  Baconfield  Yeomanry,  and,  therefore,  thought 
proper  to  surmount  his  pastoral  uniform  with  a  cavalry  cap  !  Such 
an  incongruity  was  not  to  be  overlooked.  Old  Jenkins  remonstrated, 
but  Lubin  was  obstinate  ;  the  steward  persisted,  and  tlie  other  replied 
with  a  "pt-sitive  negative ;"  and,  in  the  end,  Lubin  went  off  in  a  huf? 
to  the  Rose  and  Crown. 

The  force  of  two  bad  examples  was  too  much  for  the  virtue  of  Darius 
Dobbs  :  he  threw  away  his  crook,  left  his  sheep  to  anybody,  and  ran 
off  to  the  alehouse,  and,  what  was  worse,  Colin  was  sent  after  him,  aad 
never  came  back  ! 

The  chief  of  the  faithful  shepherds  who  now  remained  at  the  Park 
was  Hobbinol — one  Josias  Strong,  a  notorious  glutton,  who  had  won 
sundry  wagers  by  devouring  a  leg  of  mutton  and  trimmings  at  a  sitting. 
He  was  a  big  lubberly  fellow,  that  had  been  born  great,  and  had 
achieved  greatness,  but  had  not  greatness  thrust  upon  him.  It  was 
as  much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  his  trousers, — for  he  was  at  once  clown 
and  pantaloon, — down  to  the  knee,  and  more  than  he  could  do  to  keep 
them  up  to  the  waist,;  and,  to  crown  all,  having  rashly  squatted  down 
on  the  lawn,  the  juicy  herbage  had  left  a  stain  behind,  on  his  caliman- 
coes,  that  still  occupies  the  "  greenest  spot "  in  the  memoirs  of  Bacon- 
field. 

There  were  some  half-dozen  of  other  rustics  to  the  same  pattern,  but 
the  fancy  of  my  Lady  Rasherly  did  not  confine  itself  to  the  humani- 
ties. Old  Joe  Bradley,  the  blacksmith,  was  Pan  ;  and  truly  he  made  a 
respectable  satyr  enough,  for  he  came  half  drunk,  and  was  rough, 
gruff,  tawny  and  brawny,  and  bow-legged,  and  hadn't  been  shaved  for 
a  month.  His  cue  was  to  walk  about  in  buckskins,  leadmg  his  own 
billy-goat,  and  he  was  followed  up  and  down  by  his  sister,  Patty,  whom 
the  wags  called  Patty  Pan. 

The  other  deity  was  also  a  wet  one — a  Triton  amongst  mythologists, 
but  Timothy  Gubbins  with  his  familiars, — the  acknowledged  dolt  of 
the  village,  and  remarkable  for  his  weekly  slumbers  in  the  parish 
church.  It  had  been  ascertained  that  he  could  neither  pipe,  nor  sing, 
nor  dance,  nor  even  keep  sheep,  so  he  was  stuck  with  an  urn  under 
his  arm,  and  a  rush  crown,  as  the  God  of  the  fishpond, — a  task,  simple 
as  it  was,  that  proved  beyond  his  genius,  for,  after  stupidly  dozing 
awhile  over  his  vase,  he  fell  into  a  sound  snoring  sleep,  out  of  which  he 
cold-pigged  himself  by  tumbling,  urn  and  all,  into  his  own  fountain. 

Misfortunes  always  come  pick-a-back.  The  Rose  and  Crown  hap- 
pened to  be  a  receiving  house  for  the  drowned,  under  the  patronage 
the  Humane  Society,  wherefore  the  Water-God  \x\%\%\.z^  on  going  there 
to  be  dried,  and  Cuddy,  who  had  pulled  him  out,  insisted  on  going  with 
iiim  !  These  two  had  certainly  some  slight  excuse  for  walking  off  to 
the  iilehouse,  whereas,  Sylvio  thought  proper  to  follow  them  without 
any  excuse  at  all ! 

This  mischance  was  but  the  prelude  of  new  disasters.  It  was  neces* 
sary,  before  beginning  the  sports  of  the  day,  to  elect  a  May  Queen, 


A  MAY-DAY.  383 

and,  by  the  influence  of  Lady  Rasherly,  the  choice  of  the  lieges  fell 
upon  Jenny  Acres,  a  really  pretty  maiden,  and  worthy  of  the  honour ; 
but  in  the  meantime,  Dolly  Wiggins,  a  brazen,  strapping  dairymaid, 
had  quietly  elected  herself, — snatched  a  flower-basket  from  one  of  the 
six  Floras,  strewed  her  own  path,  and  getting  first  to  the  royal  arbour, 
squatted  there  firm  and  fast,  and  persisted  in  reigning  as  Queen  in 
her  own  right.  Hence  arose  civil  and  uncivil  war, — and  Alexis  and 
Diggon,  being  interrupted  in  a  boxing-match  in  the  park,  adjourned 
to  the  Rose  and  Crown  to  have  it  out ;  and  as  two  can't  make  a  ring,  a 
round  dozen  of  the  shepherds  went  along  with  them  for  that  purpose. 

There  now  remained  but  five  swains  in  Arcadia,  and  they  had  five 
nymphs  apiece,  besides  Mary  Jenks,  who  divided  her  favour  equally 
amongst  them  all.  There  should  have  been  next  in  order  a  singing 
match  on  the  lawn,  for  a  prize,  after  the  fashion  of  Pope's  Pastorals ; 
but  Corydon,  one  of  the  warblers,  had  bolted,  and  Palemon,  who 
remained,  had  forgotten  what  was  set  down  for  him,  though  he  oblig- 
ingly offered  to  sing  "  Tom  Bowling  "  instead.  But  Lady  Rasherly 
thought  proper  to  dispense  with  the  song,  and  there  being  nothing 
else,  or  better,  to  do,  she  directed  a  movement  to  the  marquee,  in  order 
to  begin,  though  somewhat  early,  on  the  collation.  Alas  !  even  this 
was  a  failure.  During  the  time  of  Gubbins's  ducking — the  Queen's 
coronation — and  the  boxing-match — Hobbinol,  that  great  greedy  lout, 
had  been  privily  in  the  pavilion,  glutting  his  constitutional  voracity  on 
the  substantials,  and  he  was  now  lying  insensible  and  harmless,  like  a 
gorged  boa-constrictor,  by  the  side  of  the  table.  Pan,  too,  had  been 
missing,  and  it  was  thought  he  was  at  the  Rose  and  Crown,— but  no 
such  luck  !  He  had  been  having  a  sly  pull  at  the  tent  tankards,  and 
from  half  drunk  had  got  so  whole  drunk,  that  he  could  not  hinder  his 
goat  from  having  a  butt  even  at  Diana  herself,  nor  from  entangling 
his  horns  in  the  table-cloth,  by  which  the  catastrophe  of  the  collation 
was  completed  ! 

The  rest  of  the  fete  consisted  of  a  succession  of  misfortunes  which 
it  would  be  painful  to  dwell  upon,  and  cruel  to  describe  minutely.  So 
I  will  but  hint,  briefly,  how  the  fragments  of  the  banquet  were  scrambled 
for  by  the  Arcadians — how  they  danced  afterwards  round  the  Maypole, 
not  tripping  themselves  like  fairies,  but  tripping  one  another — how  the 
Honourable  Miss  Rasherly,  out  of  idleness,  stood  fitting  the  notch  of 
an  arrow  to  the  string,  and  how  the  shaft  went  off  of  itself,  and  lodged, 
unluckily,  in  the  calf  of  one  of  the  caperers.  I  will  leave  to  the  imagi- 
nation what  suits  were  torn  past  mending  or  soiled  beyond  washing 
— the  lamentations  of  old  Jenkins — and  the  vows  of  Lady  Rasherly 
and  her  daughters  that  there  should  be  no  more  May-days  at  Pork- 
ington.  Suffice  it,  that  night  found  a// the  Arcadians  at  the  Rose  and 
Crown  :  and  on  the  morrow,  Diana  and  her  nymphs  were  laid  up  with 
severe  colds — Dolly  Wiggins  was  out  of  place — Hobbinol  in  a  surfeit 
—Alexis  before  a  magistrate — Palemon  at  a  surgeon's — Billy  in  the 

f)ound — and  Pan  in  the  stocks,  with  the   fumes  of  the  last  night's 
iquor  not  yet  evaporated  from  his  grey  gooseberry  eyes. 


CREAM  OF  THE  COMIC  ANNUALS. 


cIj oV  V^Xiii¥ s 9'Jn ^c4sV^ - 


''^i'ij("^^< 


A  pastoral  in  A  flat 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS* 

HOW  the  following  correspondence  came  into  my  hands  must 
remain  a  Waverley  mystery.  The  Pugsley  Papers  were  neither 
rescued  from  a  garret,  like  the  Evelyn, — collected  from  cartridges,  like 
the  CuUoden,  nor  saved,  like  the  Garrick,  from  being  shredded  into 
a  snowstorm  at  a  Winter  Theatre.  They  were  not  snatched  from  a 
tailor's  shears,  like  the  original  parchment  of  M:igna  Charta.  They 
were  neither  the  Legacy  of  a  Dominie,  nor  the  communications  of  My 
Landlord, — a  consignment,  like  the  Clinker  Letters,  from  some  Rev. 
Jonathan  Dustwich,— ?  nor  the  waifs  and  strays  of  a  Twopenny  Post 
Bag.  They  were  not  unrolled  from  ancient  papyri.  They  were 
.none  of  those  that  "  line  trunks,  clothe  spices,"  or  paper  the  walls  of  old 
attics.  They  were  neither  given  to  me  nor  sold  to  me, — nor  stolen, — 
nor  borrowed  and  surreptitiously  copied, — nor  left  in  a  hackney-coach, 
like  Sheridan's  play,  nor  misdelivered  by  a  carrier-pigeon, — nor 
dreamt  of,  like  Coleridge's  Kubla  Khnn, — nor  turned  up  in  the  Tower, 
like  Milton's  Foundling  MS., — nor  dug  up, —nor  trumped  up,  like  the 
Eastern  Tales  of  Horam-harum  Horam  the  Son  of  Asmar, — nor  brought 
over  by  Rammohun  Roy, — nor  translated  by  Doctor  Bovvring  from 
the  Scandinavian,  Batavian,  Pomeranian,  Spanish,  or  Danish,  or  Rus- 

*  Comic  Annual,  1S32. 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS.  jSj 

slan,  or  Prussian,  or  any  other  language  dead  or  living.  They  were 
not  picked  from  the  Dead  Letter  Office,  nor  purloined  from  the  British 
Museum.  In  short,  I  cannot,  dare  not,  will  not,  hint  even  at  the 
mode  of  their  acquisition  :  the  reider  must  be  content  to  know  that, 
in  point  of  authenticity,  the  Pugsley  Papers  are  the  extreme  reverse 

of  Lady  L ^"s  celebrated  Auto^^raphs,  which  were  all  written  by  the 

proprietor. 

No.  L — From  Master  Richard  Pugsley  to  Master  Robert 
Rogers,  at  Nmnber  132  Barbican. 

Dear  Bob, — Huzza  ! — Here  I  am  in  Lincolnshire  !  It's  good-bye  to 
Wellingtons  and  Cossacks,  Ladies'  double  channels,  Gentlemen's  stout 
calf,  and  ditto  ditto.  They've  all  been  sold  off  under  prime  cost,  and 
the  old  Shoe  Mart  is  disposed  of,  goodwill  and  fixtures,  for  ever  and 
ever.  Father  has  been  made  a  rich  Squire  of  by  will,  and  we've  got 
a  house  and  fields  and  trees  of  our  own.  Such  a  garden,  Bob  ! — It 
beats  White  Conduit 

Now,  Bob,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want.  I  want  you  to  come  down 
here  for  the  holidays.  Don't  be  afraid.  Ask  your  Sister  to  ask  youi' 
Mother  to  ask  your  Father  to  let  you  come.  It's  only  ninety  mile. 
If  you're  out  of  pocket-money,  you  can  walk,  and  beg  a  lift  now  and 
then,  or  swing  by  the  dickeys.  Put  on  corduroys,  and  don't  care  for 
cut  behind.  The  two  prentices,  George  and  Will,  are  here  to  be  made 
farmers  of,  and  brother  Nick  is  took  home  from  school  to  help  in  agri- 
Culture.  We  like  farming  very  much,  it's  capital  fun.  Us  four  have 
got  a  gun,  and  go  out  shooting  :  it's  a  famous  good  un,  and  sure  to 
go  off,  if  you  don't  full  cock  it.  Tiger  is  to  be  our  shooting  dog  as 
soon  as  he  has  left  off  kiUing  the  sheep.  He's  a  real  savage,  and 
worries  cats  beautiful.  Before  Father  comes  down,  we  mean  to  bait 
our  bull  with  him. 

There's  plenty  of  New  Rivers  about,  and  we're  going  a  fishing  as 
soon  as  we  have  mended  our  top-joint.  We've  killed  one  of  our  sheep 
on  the  sly  to  get  gentles.  We've  a  pony  too,  to  ride  upon  when  we  can 
catch  him,  but  he's  loose  in  the  paddock,  and  has  neither  mane  nor 
tail  to  signify  to  lay  hold  of.  Isn't  it  prime,  Bob  ?  Yojj  must  come. 
If  your  Mother  won't  give  your  Father  leave  to  allow  you, — run  away. 
Remember,  you  turn  up  Goswell  Street  to  go  to  Lincolnshire,  and  ask 
for  Middlefen  Hall.  There's  a  pond  full  of  frogs,  but  we  won't  pelt 
them  till  you  come,  but  let  it  be  before  Sunday,  as  there's  our  own 
orchard  to  rob,  and  the  fruit's  to  be  gathered  on  Monday. 

If  you  like  sucking  raw  eggs,  we  know  where  the  hens  lay,  and 
^mother  don't ;  and  I'm  bound  there's  lots  of  birds'  nests.  Do  come. 
Bob,  and  I'll  show  you  the  wasps'  nest,  and  everything  that  can 
aiake  you  comfortable.  I  daresay  you  could  borrow  your  father's 
volunteer  musket  of  him  without  his  knowing  of  it  ;  but  be  sure  any- 
how to  bring  the  ramrod,  as  we  have  mislaid  ours  by  firing  it  off. 
Don't  forget  some  bird-lime,  Bob— and  some  fish-hooks — and  some 
different  sorts  of  shot — and  some  gut  and  some  gunpowder — and  a 
gentle-box,  and  some  flints, — some  Mayflies, — and  a  powder-horn, — 
and  a  lauding-net  and  a  dog-whistle — and  some  porcupine  quills,  and 

S  B 


386  THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 

a  bullet-mould — and  a  troUing-winch,  and  a  shot-belt  and  a  tin  can. 
You  pav  for  'em,  Bob,  and'l'll  owe  it  you.— Your  old  friend  and 
schoolfeUow,  Richard  Pugslsy. 

No.  II. — From  the  Same  to  the  Same, 

Dear  Bob,— When  you  come,  bring  us  a  'bacco-pipe  to  load  the 
gun  with.  If  you  don't  come,  it  can  come  by  the  waggon.  Our 
Public  House  is  three  mile  off,  and  when  you've  walked  there  it's  out 
of  everything.     Yours,  &c.,  RiCH.  PUGSLEY. 

No.  \\\.— From  Miss  Anastasia  Pugsley /£>  Miss  JEMIMA  MOG- 
GRIDGE,^/  C?'egory  House  Establishment  for  Young  Ladies,  Mile 
End. 
My  dear  Jemima, — Deeply  solicitous  to  gratify  sensibility,  by 
sympathising  with  our  fortuitous  elevation,  I  seize  the  epistolary 
implements  to  inform  you,  that  by  the  testamentary  disposition  of  a 
remote  branch  of  consanguinity,  our  tuteliry  residence  is  removed 
from  the  metropolitan  horizon  to  a  pastoral  district  and  its  congenial 
pursuits.  In  futurity  1  shall  be  more  pertinaciously  superstitious  in 
the  astrological  revelations  of  human  destiny.  You  remember  the 
mysterious  gipsy  at  Hornsey  Wood? — Well,  the  eventful  fortune  she 
obscurely  intimated,  though  couched  in  vague  terms,  has  come  to  pass 
in  minutest  particulars  :  for  I  perceive  perspicuously,  that  it  predicted 
th  >t  papa  should  sell  off  his  boot  and  shoe  business  at  133  Barbican, 
to  Clack  &  Son,  of  144  Hatton  Garden,  and  that  we  should  retire,  in 
a  station  of  affluence,  to  Middlefen  Hall,  in  Lincolnshire,  by  bequest  of 
our  great-great  m  uernal  uncle,  Pt)llexfen  Goldsworthy  Wrigglesworth, 
Esq.,  who  deceased  suddenly  of  apoplexy  at  Wisbeach  Market,  in  the 
ninety-third  vear  of  his  venerable  and  lamented  age. 

At  the  risk  of  tedium,  I  will  attempt  a  cursory  delineation  of  our 
rural  paradise,  altho'  I  feel  it  would  be  morally  arduous  to  give  any 
idea  cf  the  romantic  scenery  of  the  Lincolnshire  Fens.  Conceive,  as 
far  as  the  visual  orijan  expands,  an  immense  sequestered  level,  abun- 
dantly irrigated  with  minute  rivulets,  and  studded  with  tufted  oaks, 
whilst  more  than  a  hundred  windmills  diversify  the  prospect  and 
give  a  revolving  animation  to  the  scene.  As  for  our  own  gardens  and 
grounds,  they  are  a  perfect  Vauxhall— excepting  of  course  the  rot.unda, 
the  orchestra,  the  company,  the  variegated  lamps,  the  fireworks,  and 
those  very  lofty  trees.  But  I  trust  my  dear  Jemima  will  supersede 
topography  by  ocular  inspection  ;  and  in  the  interim  I  send  for  accept- 
ance°a  graphical  view  of  the  locality,  shaded  in  Indian  ink,  which  will 
suffice  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  terrestrial  verdure  and  celestial  azure 
we  enjoy,  in  lieu  of  the  sable  exhalations  and  architectural  nigritude 
of  the  metropolis.  .    , 

You  who  know  my  pastoral  aspirings,  and  have  been  the  mculgent 
confident  of  my  votive  tributes  to  the  Muses,  will  conceive  the  refined 
nature  of  my  enjoyment  when  I  mention  the  intellectual  repast  of  this 
morning.  1  never  could  enjoy  Bloomfleld  in  Barbican,— but  to-day 
he  read  beautifully  under  our  pear-tree.     I  look  forward  to  the  vlicity 


THE  PUGS  LEY  PAPERS. 


of  reading  Thomson's  Summer  with  you 
enj^iagcments  ;it  Christmas  permit  your 
there  is  a  bower  of  evergreens 
that  will  be  deli.iihtful  for  the 
perusal  of  his  Winter. 

I  enclose,  by  request,  an 
epistolary  effusion  from  sis- 
ter Dorothy,  which  I  know 
will  provoke  your  risible 
powers,  by  the  domesticity 
of  its  details.  You  know  she 
was  alwavs  in  the  homely 
characteristics  a  perfect  Cin- 
derella, though  I  doubt 
whether  even  supernatuml 
agency  could  adapt  her  foot 
to  a  diminutive  vitrihed  slip- 
per, or  her  hand  for  a  prince 
of  regal  primogeniture.  But 
I  nm  summoned  to  receive, 
with  family  members,  the 
felicitations  of  Lincolnshire 
aristocracy  ;  though  whatever 
necessary  distinctions  may 
prospectively  occur  between 
respective  grades  in  life,  they 
will  only  superfici.  Uy  affect 
the  sentiments  of  eternal 
friendship  between  my  dear 
Jemima  and  her  affectionate  friend 


on  the  green    seat, 
participation  in  the 


387 

and  if 
bard, 


Cinderella. 

Anastasia  Pugsley. 


No.  W.—From  Miss  Dorothy  Pugsley  to  the  Saine. 

My  dear  Miss  Jemima, — Providence  having  been  pleased  to 
remove  my  domestic  duties  from  Barbican  to  Lincolnshire,  I  trust  I 
shall  have  strength  of  constitution  to  fulfil  them  as  becomes  my  new 
allotted  line  of  life.  As  we  are  not  sent  into  this  world  to  be  idle,  and 
Anastasia  has  declined  housewifery,  I  have  undertaken  the  Dairy,  and 
the  Brewery,  and  the  Baking,  and  the  Poultry,  the  Pigs  and  the 
Pastry, — and  though  I  feel  fatigued  at  first,  use  reconciles  to  labours 
and  trials  more  severe  than  I  at  present  enjoy.  Altho'  things  may 
not  turn  out  to  wish  at  present,  yet  all  well-directed  efforts  are  sure 
to  meet  reward  in  the  end,  and  altho'  I  have  chumped  and  churned 
two  days  running,  and  it's  nothing  yet  but  curds  and  whey,  I  should 
be  wrong  to  despair  of  eating  butter  of  my  own  making  before  I  die. 
Considering  the  adulteration  committed  by  every  article  in  London, 
I  was  never  happier  in  any  prospect  than  of  drinking  my  own  milk, 
fattening  my  own  calves,  and  laying  my  own  eggs.  We  cackle  so 
much,  I  am  sure  we  new-lay  somewhere,  tho'  I  cannot  find  out  our 
nests  ;  and  I  am  looking  every  day  to  have  chickens,  as  one  pepper- 
and-salt-coVured  hen  has  been  sitting  these  two  months.  When  a 
poor  ignorant  bird  sets  me  such  an  example  of  patience,  how  can  I 


388  THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 

repine  at  the  hardest  domestic  drudgery !  Mother  and  I  have  worked 
like  horses  to  be  sure,  ever  since  we  came  to  tlie  estate  ;  but  if  we  die 
in  it.  we  know  it's  for  the  good  of  the  family,  and  to  agreeably  surprise 
my  Father,  who  is  still  in  town  winding  up  his  books.  For  my  own 
part,  if  it  was  right  to  look  at  things  so  selfishly,  1  should  say  I  never 
was  so  happy  in  my  life  ;  though  1  own  I  have  cried  more  since  com- 
ing here  than  I  ever  remember  before.  You  will  confess  my  crosses 
and  losses  have  been  unusual  trials,  when  I  tell  you,  out  of  all  my 
makings,  and  bakings,  and  brewings,  and  preservings,  there  has  been 
nothing  either  eatable  or  drinkable  ;  and  what  is  more  painful  to  an 
affectionate  mind, — have  half  poisoned  the  whole  f  imily  with  home- 
made ketchup  of  toadstools,  by  mistake  for  mushrooms.  When  I 
reflect  that  they  are  preserved,  I  ouL;ht  not  to  grieve  about  my  dam- 
sons and  buUaces,  done  by  Mrs  M.iria  Dover's  receipt. 

Among  other  things,  we  caine  into  a  beautiful  closet  of  old  China, 
which,  I  am  shocked  to  say,  is  all  destroyed  by  my  preserving.  The 
bullaces  and  damsons  fomented,  and  blew  up  a  great  jar  with  a 
violent  shock  that  sm:ished  all  the  tea  and  coffee  cups,  and  left 
nothing  but  the  handles  hanging  in  rows  on  the  tenter-hooks.  But 
to  a  resigned  spirit  there's  always  some  comfort  in  calamities,  and  if 
the  preserves  work  and  foment  so,  there's  some  hope  that  my  beer 
will,  as  it  has  been  a  month  next  Monday  in  the  mash-tub.  As  for 
the  loss  of  the  elder-wine,  candour  compel-  me  to  say  it  was  my  own 
fault  for  letting  the  poor  blind  little  animals  crawl  into  the  copper  ; 
but  experience  dictates  next  year  not  to  boil  the  berries  and  kittens  at 
the  same  time. 

I  mean  to  attempt  cream  cheese  as  soon  as  we  can  get  cream, — but 
as  yet  we  can't  drive  the  Cows  home  to  be  milked  for  the  Bull — he 
has  twice  hunted  Grace  and  me  into  fits,  and  kept  my  poor  Mother  a 
whole  morning  in  the  pigstye.  As  I  know  you  like  country  delicacies, 
you  will  receive  a  pound  of  my  fresh  butter  when  it  comes,  and  I 
mean  to  add  a  cheese  as  soon  as  1  can  get  one  to  stick  together.  I 
shall  send  also  some  family  pork  for  Governess,  of  our  own  killing, 
as  we  wring  a  pig's  neck  on  Saturday.  1  did  hope  to  give  you  the 
unexpected  treat  of  a  home-made  loaf,  but  it  was  forgot  in  the  oven 
from  ten  to  six,  and  so  too  black  to  offer.  However,  I  hope  to  sur- 
prise you  with  one  by  Monday's  carrier.  Anastasia  bids  me  add  she 
will  send  a  nosegay  for  respected  Mrs  Tombleson,  if  the  plants  don't 
die  off  before,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say  is  not  improbable. 

It's  really  shocking  to  see  the  failure  of  her  cultivated  taste,  and 
one  in  particular,  that  must  be  owned  a  vtry  pretty  idea  When  we 
came,  there  was  a  vast  number  of  flower  roots,  but  jumbled  without 
any  regular  order,  till  Anastasia  trowelled  tliem  all  up  and  set  them  in 
again,  in  the  quadrille  figures.  It  must  have  looked  sweetly  elegant, 
if  it  had  agreed  with  them,  but  they  have  all  dwindled  and  drooped 
like  deep  declines  and  consunipiions.  Her  dahlias  and  tulips  too 
have  turned  out  nothing  but  onions  and  kidney-potatoes,  and  her 
ten-week  stocks  have  not  come  up  in  twenty.  But  as  Shakes[ieare 
says.  Adversity  is  a  precious  toad — that  teaches  us  Patience  is  a 
Je.vel. 

Considering  the  unsettled  state  of  coming  in,  I  must  conclude,  but 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


389 


could  not  resist  giving  your  friendliness  a  short  account  of  the  happy 
change  that  has  occurred,  and  our  increise  of  conifurts.  I  would 
write  more,  but  I  know 
j'ou  will  excuse  my  listen- 
in;4  to  the  calls  of  dumb 
animals.  It's  the  time  I 
always  scald  the  little 
pigs'  bread  and  milks, 
and  put  saucers  of  clean 
water  for  the  ducks  and 
geese.  There  are  the 
fowls'  beds  to  make  with 
fresh  straw,  and  a  hun- 
dred similar  things  that 
country  people  are  obliged 
to  think  of. 

The  children,  I  am 
happy  to  say,  are  all  well, 
only  baby  is  a  little  frac- 
tious, we  think  from 
Grace  setting  him  down 
in  the  nettles,  and  he  was 
short-coated  last  week. 
Grace  is  poorly  with  a 
cold,  and  Anastasia  has 
got  a  sore  throat,  from 
sitting  up  fruitlessly  in 
the   orchard  to  heir  the 

nightingale    ;    -   perhaps  Very  Fond  of  Gardening. 

there  may  not  be  any  in  the  Fens,  I  seem  to  have  a  trifling  ague  and 
rheumatism  myself,  but  it  may  be  only  a  stiffness  from  so  much  churn- 
ing, and  the  great  family  wash-up  of  everything  we  had  directly  we 
came  down,  for  the  sake  of  grass-bleaching  on  the  lawn.  With  these 
exceptions,  we  are  all  in  perfect  health  and  happiness,  and  unite  in 
love,  with  dear  JMiss  Jemima's  affectionate  friend, 

Dorothy  Pugsley. 


No.  V. — From  Mrs  Pugsley  to  Mrs  Mumford,  B tickler sbury. 

My  dear  Martha, — In  my  ultimatum  I  informed  of  old  Wriggles- 
worth  paying  his  natural  debts,  and  of  the  whole  Middlefen  estate 
coming  from  Lincolnshire  to  Barbican.  I  charged  Mr  P.  to  send 
buUetings  into  you  with  progressive  reports,  but  between  sisters,  as  I 
know  you  are  very  curious,  I  am  going  to  make  myself  more  particular. 
1  take  the  opportunity  of  the  family  being  all  restive  in  bed,  and  the 
house  all  still,  to  give  an  account  of  our  moving.  The  things  all  got 
here  safe,  with  the  exception  of  the  Crockery  and  Glass,  which  came 
down  with  the  dresser,  about  an  hour  after  its  arrival.  Perhaps  if  we 
hadn't  overloaded  it  with  the  whole  of  our  breakables.it  wouldn't  have 
given  way, — as  it  is,  we  have  only  one  plate  left,  and  that's  chipt,  and 
a  mug  without  a  spuut  to  keep  it  in  countenance.     Our  furniture.  &c., 


390 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 


came  by  the  waggon,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  a  poor  family  at  the  same 
time,  and  the  little  idle  boys  with  their  knives  have  carved  and  scari- 
fied my  rosewood  legs,  and,  what  is  worse,  not  of  the  same  patterns  : 
but  as  people  say,  two  Lincolnshire  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire  of 
London. 

The  first  thing  I  did  on  coming  down,  was  to  see  to  the  sweens 
going  up, — but  I  wish  I  had  been  less  precipitous,  for  the  sooty 
wretches  stole  four  good  flitches  of  bacon,  as  was  up  the  kitchen 
chimbly,  quite  unbeknown  to  me.  We  have  filled  up  the  vacancy 
with  more,  which  smoke  us  dreadfully,  but  what  is  to  be  cured  must 
be  endured.  My  next  thing  was  to  have  all  holes  and  corners 
cleared  out,   and  washed,  and   scrubbed,   being   left,  like   bacheloi's 

places,  in  a  sad  state  by  old  single  W ;  for  a  rich  man,  I   never 

saw  one  that  wanted  so  much  cleaning  out.  There  were  heaps  of 
dung  about,  as  high  as  haystacks,  and  it  cost  me  five  shillin-s  a  load 
to  have  it  all  carted  otT  the  premises  ;  besides  heaps  of  good-for-nothing 
littering  straw,  that  I  gave  to  the  boys  for  bonfires.  We  are  not  all 
to  rights  yet,  but  Rome  wasn't  built  in  St  Thomas's  day. 

It   was  providential   I    hampered   myself  with   cold  provisions,  for 

except  the  bacon  there  were  no  eatables  in  the  house.     Wiiat  old  W 

lived  upon  is  a  mystery,  except  salads,  for  we  found  a  whole  field  of 
beet-root,  which,  all  but  a  few  plants  for  Dorothy  to  pickle,  I  had 

chuclced  away.  As 
the  groimd  was  then 
clear  for  sowing  up 
a  crop,  I  directed 
George  to  plough  it 
UP,  but  he  met  with 
agricultural  distress. 
He  says  as  soon  as 
he  whipped  his 
horses,  the  plough 
stuck  its  nose  in  the 
earth,  and  tumbled 
over  head  and  heels. 
It  seems  very  odd 
when  ploughing  is  so 
easy  to  look  at,  but 
I  trust  he  will  do 
better  in  time.  Ex- 
perience makes  a 
King  Solomon  of  a 
Tom  noddy. 

I  expect  we  shall 
have  bushels  upon 
bushels  of  corn,  tho' 
sadly  pecked  by  the 
birds,  as   I   have  had 

The  Rakes  Progress.  ^^      ^j^^      SCarecrOWS 

taken  down  for  fear  of  the  children  dreaming  of  them  for  Bogies.  For 
the  same  dear  little  sakes  I  have  had  the  well  filled  up,  and  the  nasty 


THE  PUGS  LEY  PAPERS. 


391 


sharp  iron  spikes  drawn  out  of  all  the  rakes  and  harrows.  Nobody 
shall  say  to  my  teeth,  I  am  not  a  -ood  Mother.  With  these  pre- 
cautions I  trust  the  young  ones  will  enjoy  the  country  whtn  the 
gipsies  have  left,  but  till  then,  I  confine  them  to  round  the  house,  as 
it's  no  use  shutting  the  stable  door  after  you've  had  a  child  stole. 

We  have  a  good  many  fine  fields  of  hay,  which  I  mean  to  have 
reaped  directly,  wet  or  shine  ;  for  delays  are  as  dangerous  as  pickles  in 
glazed  pans.  Perhaps  St  Swithin's  is  m  our  favour,  for  if  the  stacks 
are  put  up  dampish  they  won't  catch  fire  so  easily,  if  Swing  should 
come  into  these  parts.  The  poor  boys  have  made  themselves  very 
industrious  in  shooting  off  the  birds,  and  hunting  away  all  the  ver- 
min, besides  cutting  down  tret  s.  As  I  knew  it  was  profitable  to  fell 
timber,  I  directed  them  to  begin  with  a  very  .ugly  stragglin.;  old 
hollow  tree  nex-t  the  premises,  but  it  fell  the  wrong  way,  and  knocked 
down  the  cow-house.  Luckily  the  poor  animnls  were  all  in  the  clover 
field  at  the  time.  Genr^e  says  it  wouldn't  have  happened  but  for  a 
violent  sow,  or  rather  sow-west, — and  it's  likely  enough,  but  it's  an  ill 
wind  that  blows  nothing  to  nobody. 

Having  writ  list  post  to  Mr  P ,  I  have  no  occasion  to  make  you 

•a  country  commis- 
sioner. Anastasia, 
indeed,  wants  to  have 
books  about  every- 
thing, but  for  my 
part  and  Dorothy's 
we  don't  put  much 
faith  in  authorised 
receipts  and  direc- 
tions, but  trust  more 
to  nature  and  com- 
mon sense.  For  in- 
stance, in  fatting  a 
goose,  reason  points 
to  sage  and  onions, 
— why  our  own  don't 
thrive  on  it,  is  very 
mysterious.  We  have 
a  beautiful  poultry 
yard,  only  inlested 
with  rats,  —  but  I 
have  made  up  a  poi- 
son, that,  I  know 
by  the  poor  ducks, 
will  kill  them  if  they 
eat  it. 

I  expected  to  send 
you     a    quantity    of  ,      1.    1.       j     u  r 

wall-fruit,  for  preserving,  and  am  sorry  you  bought  the  brandy  belore- 
hand,  as  it  has  all  vanished  in  one  night  by  picking  and  stealing,  not- 
withstanding I  had  ten  dozen  of  bottles  broke  on  purpose  to  stick  atop 
of  the  wall.     But  I  rather  think  they  came  over  the  pales,  as  George, 


Wall  Fruit. 


392 


THE  PL-GSLEY  PAPERS. 


who  is  very  thoughtless,  had  driven  in  nil  the  new  tenter  hooks  with 
the  points  downwards.  Our  apples  and  pears  would  have  gone  too, 
but  luckily  we  heard  a  noise  in  the  dark,  and  threw  brickbats  out  of 
window,  that  alarmed  the  thieves  by  smashing  the  cowcumber  frames. 
However,  I  mean  on  Monday  to  make  sure  of  the  orchard,  by  gather- 
ing the  trees, — a  pheasant  in  one's  hand  is  worth  two  cock-sparrows 
in  a  bush.  One  comfort  is,  the  house-dog  is  very  vicious,  and  won't 
let  any  of  us  stir  in  or  out  after  dark — indeed,  nothing  can  be  more 
furious  except  the  bull,  and  at  me  in  particular.  You  would  think  he 
knew  my  inward  thoughts,  and  thnt  I  intend  to  have  him  roasted 
whole  when  we  give  our  grand  house-warming  regalia. 

With  these  particulars,  I  remain  with  love,  my  dt  ar  Dorcas,  your 
affectionate  sister,  Belinda  Pugsley. 

PS. — I  have  only  one  anxiety  here,  and  that  is,  the  likelihood  of 
being  taken  violently  ill,  nine  miles  off  from  any  physical  powers,  with 
nobody  that  can  ride  in  the  house,  and  nothing  but  an  insurmountable 
hunting  horse  m  the  stable.  I  should  like,  therefore,  to  be  well  doctor- 
stuff'd  iVom  Apothecaries'  Hall,  by  the  waggon  or  any  other  vehicle. 
A  stitch  in  the  side  taken  in  time  saves  nine  spasms.  Doroth)'_s 
tincture  of  the  rhubarb  stalks  in  the  garden  doesn't  answer,  and  it's  a 
pity  now  they  were  not  saved  for  pies. 


A  Coolness  between  Friends. 


No.  VI. — Frofn  Mrs  PUGSLEY  to  Mrs  Rogers. 
Madam, — Although  warmth  has  made  a  coolness,  and  our  having 
words  has  caused  a  silence,  yet  as  mere  writing  is  not  being  on  speak- 


THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS.  393 

Jng  terms,  and  disconsolate  parents  in  the  case,  I  waive  venting  of 
animosities  till  a  more  ngreenl^le  moment.  Having  perused  the 
afflicted  advertisement  in  tlie  Times,  with  interesting  description  ol 
person,  and  ineffectual  d'agging  of  New  River, — beg  leave  to  say  that 
Master  Robert  is  safe  and  well, — having  arrived  here  on  Saturday 
night  last,  with  almost  not  a  shoe  to  his  foot,  and  no  coat  at  all,  as 
was  supposed  to  be  with  the  approbation  of  parents.  It  appears  that, 
not  supposing  the  distance  between  the  families  extended  to  him,  he 
walked  the  wiiole  way  down  on  the  footing  of  a  friend,  to  visit  my  son 
Richard,  but  hearing  the  newspapers  read,  quitted  suddenly,  the  same 
day  with  the  gipsies,  and  we  haven't  an  idea  what  is  become  of  hiin. 
Trusting  this  statement  will  relieve  of  all  anxiety,  remain.  Madam, 
your  humble  Servant,  Belinda  Pugsley. 

No.  VII. —  To  Mr  SiLAS  PuGSLEY,  Parisian  Depdt,  Shoreditch. 

Dear  Brother,— My  favour  of  the  present  date,  is  to  advise  of 
my  safe  arrival  on  Wednesday  night,  per  opposition  coach,  after  ninety 
miles  of  discomfort,  absolutely  unrivalled  for  cheapness,  and  a  walk 
of  five  miles  more,  through  lanes  and  roads,  that  for  din  and  sludge 
may  confidently  defy  competition, — not  to  mention  turnings  and  wind- 
ings, too  numerous  to  particularise,  but  morally  impossible  to  pursue 
on  undeviating  principles.  The  night  was  of  so  dark  a  quality  as  tor- 
bade  finding  the  gate,  but  for  the  house-dog  flying  upon  me  by  mis- 
take for  the  late  respectable  proprietor,  and  almost  tearing  my  clothes 
off  my  back  by  his  strenuous  exertions  to  obtain  the  favour  of  my 
patronage. 

Consci:  ntiously  averse  to  the  fallacious  statements,  so  much  indulged 
in  by  various  competitors,  truth  urges  to  acknowledge  that  on  arrival, 
I  did  not  find  things  on  such  a  footing  as  to  ensure  universal  satisfaction, 
Mrs  P.,  indeed,  differs  in  her  statement,  but  you  know  her  success 
al'.vays  surpassed  the  most  sanguine  expectations.  Ever  emulous  to 
merit  commendation  by  the  strictest  regard  to  principles  of  economy, 
I  f 'und  her  laid  up  with  lumbago,  through  her  studious  efforts  to  please, 
and  Doctor  Clarke  of  Wisbeach  in  the  house  prescVibing  for  it,  but  I 
am  sorry  to  add — no  abatement.  Dorothy  is  also  confined  to  her  bed, 
by  her  unremitting  assiduity  and  attention  in  the  housekeeping  line, 
and  Anastasia  the  same,  from  listening  for  nightingales,  on  a  fine  July 
evening,  but  which  is  an  article  not  ahvays  to  be  warranted  to  keep  its 
virtue  in  any  climate,— the  other  children,  large  and  small  sizes,  ditto, 
ditto,  with  Grace  too  ill  to  serve  in  the  nursery, — and  the  rest  of  the 
servants  totally  unable  to  execute  such  extensive  demands.  Such  an 
unprecedented  depreciation  in  health  makes  me  doubt  the  quality  of 
country  air,  so  much  recommended  for  family  use,  and  whether  consti- 
tutions have  not  more  eligibility  to  offer  that  have  been  regularly  town- 
made. 

Our  new  residence  is  a  large  lonely  Mansion,  with  no  connexion 
with  any  other  House,  but  standing  in  the  heart  of  Lincolnshire  fens, 
over  which  it  looks  through  an  advantageous  opening  ;  comprising  a 
great  variety  of  windmills,  and  drains,  and  willow-pollards,  and  an 
extensive  as.iortmeut  of  similar  arLJcles,  that  are  not  muci»  calculated 


394  THE  PUGSLEY  PAPERS. 

to  invite  inspection.  In  warehouses  for  corn,  &c.,  i'  probably  presenti 
unusual  advanta;^'es  to  the  occupier,  but  candour  compels  to  state  that 
agriculture  in  this  part  of  Lincolnshire  is  very  flat.  To  supply  lani^uage 
on  the  most  modernte  terms,  unexampled  distress  in  Spitalfields  is 
nothing  to  the  distress  in  ours.  The  corn  has  been  deluged  with  rain 
pf  remarkable  dural)ility,  without  being  able  to  wash  the  smut  out  of 
its  e  rs  ;  and  with  regard  to  the  expected  great  rise  in  hay,  our  stacks 
have  been  burnt  down  to  the  -round,  inste  id  of  going  to  the  consumer. 
If  the  hounds  hadn't  been  out,  we  might  have  fetch'd  the  engines,  but 
the  hunter  threw  George  on  his  head,  and  he  onlv  revived  to  be  sensible 
th.it  the  entire  stock  iiad  been  disposed  of  at  an  immense  sacrifice. 
The  whole  amount  I  fe.ir  will  be  out  of  book,— as  the  Norwich  Union 
refuses  to  liquidate  the  hay,  on  the  ground  that  the  policy  was  voided 
by  the  impolicy  of  putting  it  up  wet.  In  other  articles  I  am  sorry  I 
must  write  no  alteration.  Our  bull,  after  killing  the  house-dog,  and 
tossing  William,  has  gone  wild  and  had  the  madness  to  run  away 'from 
his  livelihood,  and,  what  is  worse,  all  the  cows  after  him— except  those 
that  had  burst  themselves  in  the  clover  field,  and  a  small  dividend,  as 
I  may  say,  of  one  in  the  pound.  Another  item,  the  pigs,  to  save  bread 
and  milk,  have  lieen  turned  into  the  woods  for  acorns,  and  is  an  article 
producing  no  returns— as  not  one  has  yet  come  back.  Poultry  ditto. 
Sedulously  cultivating  an  enlarged  connexion  in  the  Turkev  line,  such 
the  antipathv  to  ginsies,  the  whole  breed,  geese  and  dueks  inclusive, 
removed  themselves  frcm  the  premises  by  ni«;ht,  directly  a  strolling 
camp  came  and  set  up  in  the  neigiibourhood.  To  avoid  prolixity,  when 
I  came  to  take  stock,  there  was  no  stock  to  take— namely,  no  eggs,  no 

butt'T,  no  cheese,  no  corn,  no  hay,  no  bread,  no  beer  — no  water  even 

nothing  but  the  mere  commodious  premises,  and  fixtures,  and  goodwill 
— .md  candour  ctunpels  to  add,  a  very  small  quantity  on  hand  of  the 
last-named  particular. 

To  add  to  stagnation,  neither  of  my  two  sons  in  the  business  nor  the 
two  apprentices  have  been  so  diligently  punctual  in  executing  country 
orders  with  despatch  and  fidelity,  as  laudal^le  ambition  desires,  but 
have  gone  about  fishing  and  shooting— and  William  has  suffered  a  loss 
of  three  fingers,  by  his  unvarying  system  of  high  charges.  He  and 
Richard  are  likewise  both  threatened  with  prosecution  for  trespassing 
on  the  Hares  in  the  adjoining  landed  mterest,  and  Nick  is  obliged  to 
decline  any  active  share,  by  dislocating  his  shoulder  in  climbing  a  tall 
tree  for  a  tomtit.  As  iox  George,  tho'  for  the  first  time  beyond  the 
circumscribed  limits  of  town  custom,  he  indulges  vanity  in  such  un- 
qu  .lified  pretensions  to  superiority  of  knowledge  in  farming,  on  the 
strengtli  of  his  grandfather  having  belonged  to  the  agricultural  line  of 
trade,  as  renders  a  wholes, ile  stock  of  patience  barely  adequate  to  meet 
its  demands.  Thus  stimulated  to  injudicious  performance,  he  is  as 
injurious  to  the  best  interests  of  the  country  as  blight  and  mildew, 
and  smut  and  rot,  and  glanders  and  pip.  all  combined  in  one  texture. 
Between  ourselves,  the  objects  of  unceasing  endeavours,  united  with 
uncompromising  integrity,  have  been  assailed  with  so  much  deteriora- 
tion, as  makes  me  humbly  desirous  of  abridi^ing  sufferings,  by  resuming 
business  as  a  Shoe  Marter  at  the  old-established  House.  If  Clack  & 
Son,  therefore,  have  not  already  taken  possession,  and  respectfully 


A  LETTER  FROM  AN  EMIGRANT.  395 

Informed  the  vicinity,  will  thankfullv  pay  reasonable  compensation  for 
loss  of  time  and  expense  incurred  by  the  b.iri^ain  beinc:  off".  In  case 
parties  aj^ree,  I  beg  you  will  authorise  Mr  Robins  to  have  the  honout 
to  dispose  of  the  whole  Lincolnshire  concern,  tho'  the  knocking  down 
of  Middlefen  Hall  will  be  a  severe  blow  on  Mrs  P.  and  family. 
Deprecatini(  the  deceitful  stimulus  of  advertising;  arts,  interest  com- 
mands to  mention, — desirable  freehold  estate  and  eliL;ible  investment 
— and  sole  reason  for  disposal,  the  proprietor  going  to  the  Continent. 
Example  suggests  likewise,  a  good  country  for  hunting  for  fox-hounds 
— ard  a  prospect  too  extensive  to  put  in  a  newspaper.  Circumstances 
being  rendered  awkward  by  the  untoward  event  of  the  running  away 
of  the  cattle,  &c.,  it  will  be  best  to  say — "The  Stock  to  be  taken  as  it 
stands  ;" — nnd  an  additional  favour  will  be  politely  conferred,  and  the 
same  thankfully  acknowledi^ed,  if  the  auctioneer  will  be  so  kind  as 
brinv  the  next  market  town  ten  miles  nearer,  and  carry  the  coach  and 
the  waggon  once  a  day  past  the  door.  Earnestly  requestmg  early 
attention  to  the  above,  and  with  sentiments  of,  &c., 

R.  PuGSLEY,  Sen. 

P.S. — Richard  is  just  come  to  hand  dripping  and  half  dead  out  of  the 
Nene,  and  the  two  apprentices  all  but  drowned  each  other  in  saving 
him.  Hence  occurs  to  add,  fishing  opportunities  among  the  desirable 
items. 

A  LETTER  FROM  AN  EMIGRANT* 

Squampash  Flatts,  ^th  November  1827. 

Dear  Brother, — Here  we  are,  thank  Providence,  safe  and  well, 
and  in  the  finest  country  you  ever  saw.  At  this  moment  I  have  be/o.e 
me  the  sublime  expanse  of  Squampash  Flatts — the  majestic  Mudibuo 
winding  throu:^h  the  midst — with  the  magnificent  ran;:;e  of  the  Squ/.b 
mountains  in  the  distance.  But  the  prospect  is  impossible  to  describe 
in  a  letter !     I  might  as  wall  attempt  a  Panorama  in  a  pill-box  ! 

We  have  fixed  our  Settlement  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river.  In 
crossing  the  rapids  we  lost  most  of  our  heavy  baggage  and  all  our 
ironwork,  but  by  great  good  fortune  we  saved  Mrs  Paisley's  grand 
piano  and  the  children's  toys.  Our  infant  city  consists  of  three  log 
huts  and  one  of  clay,  which  however,  on  the  second  day,  fell  in  to  the 
ground  landlords.  We  have  now  built  it  up  again  ; — and,  all  things 
considered,  are  as  comfortable^s  we  could  expect — and  have  christened 
our  settlement  New  London,  in  compliment  to  the  Old  Metropolis. 
We  have  one  of  the  lo^houses  to  ourselves — or  at  least  sha'l  hav  ^ 
when  we  have  built  a  new  hogstye.  We  burnt  down  the  fir'"*  -^It. 
in  making  a  bonfire  to  keep  off  the  wild  beasts,  and  for  the  present 
the  pigs  are  in  the  parlour.  As  yet  our  rooms  are  rather  usefully  than 
ele.:antly  furnished.  We  have  gutted  the  Grand  Upright,  and  it 
makes  a  convenient  cupboard, — the  chairs  were  obliged  to  blaze  at 
our  bivouacs,  but  thank  Heaven  we  have  never  leisure  to  sit  down, 
and  so  do  not  m^ss  them.  My  boys  are  contented,  and  will  be  well 
when  they  have  got  <ver  some  awkward  accidents  in  lopping  and  fell* 
•  Comic  Annual.  18  {a 


396 


A  LETTER  FROM  AN  EMIGRANT. 


in^.  Mrs  P.  grumbles  a  little,  but  it  is  her  custom  to  lament  most 
when  she  is  m  the  midst  of  comforts.  She  complains  of  solitude  and 
says  she  could  enjoy  the  very  stiffest  of  stiff  visits.  ' 


A  Stiff  Visit 


The  first  time  we  lighted  a  fire  in  our  new  abode,  a  large  serpent 
came  down  the  chimney,  which  I  looked  upon  as  a  good  omen. 
However,  as  Mrs  P.  is  not  partial  to  snakes,  and  the  heat  is  supposed 


Emigration— Meeting  a  Settler. 

to  attract  those  reptiles,  we  have  dispensed  with  fires  ever  since.     Ac 
(or  wild  beasts,  we  hear  them  howling  and  ronnng  round  the  ffn„" 


A  LETTER  FROM  AN  EMIGRANT.  39Jr 

every  night  from  dusk  till  daylight,  but  we  have  only  beet  incou- 
venienced  by  one  Lion.  The  first  time  he  came,  in  order  tt>  get  rid 
of  the  brute  peaceably,  we  turned  out  an  old  ewe,  with  which  he  was 
»vell  satisfied  ; — but  ever  since  he  comes  to  us  as  regular  as  clock- 
work for  his  mutton  ;  and  if  we  do  not  soon  contrive  to  cut  his 
acquaintance,  we  shall  hardly  have  a  sheep  in  the  flock.  It  would 
have  been  easy  to  shoot  him,  being  well  provided  with  muskets,  but 
Barnaby  mistook  our  remnant  of  gunpowder  for  onion  s-ed,  and 
sowed  it  all  in  the  kitchen  garden.  -  We  did  try  to  trap  him  into  a 
pitfall  ;  but  after  twice  catchmg  Mrs  P.,  and  every  one  of  the  children 
in  turn,  it  was  given  up.  They  are  now,  however,  perfectly  at  ease 
about  the  animal,  for  they  never  stir  out  of  door^  at  all,  and  to  make 
them  quite  comfortable,  I  have  blocked  up  all  the  windows  and  bar- 
ricaded the  door. 

We  have  lost  only  one  of  our  number  since  we  came ;  namely, 
Diggory,  the  market  gardener,  from  Glasgow,  who  went  out  one 
morning  to  botanise,  ;:nd  never  came  back.  I  am  much  surprised  at 
his  absconding,  as  he  had  nothing  but  a  spade  to  go  off  with.  Chip- 
pendale, the  carpenter,  was  sent  after  him,  but  did  not  return  ;  and 
Gregory,  the  smith,  has  been  out  after  them  these  two  days.  I 
have  just  despatched  Mudge,  the  herdsman,  to  look  for  all  three, 
and  hope  he  will  soon  give  a  good  account  of  them,  as  they  are  the 
most  useful  men  in  the  whole  settlement,  and,  in  fact,  indispensable 
to  its  existence. 

The  river  Mudiboo  is  deep  and  rapid,  and  said  to  swarm  with 
alligators,  though  I  have  heard  but  of  three  being  seen  at  one  time, 
and  none  of  those  above  eighteen  feet  long  :  this,  however,  is  im- 
material, as  we  do  not  use  the  river  fluid,  winch  is  thick  and  dirty, 
but  draw  all  our  water  from  natural  wells  and  tanks.  Poisonous 
springs  are  rather  common,  but  are  easily  distinguished  by  ctmtain- 
ing  no  fish  or  living  animal.  Those,  however,  which  swarm  with 
frogs,  toads,  newts,  efts,  &c.,  are  harmless,  and  may  be  safely  ustd  for 
culinary  purposes. 

In  short,  I  know  of  no  drawback  but  one,  which,  I  am  sanguine, 
may  be  got  over  hereafter,  and  do  earnestly  hc^pe  and  advise,  if 
things  are  no  better  in  England  than  when  I  left,  you,  and  as  many 
as  you  can  persuade,  will  sell  off  all,  and  come  over  to  this  African 
Paradise. 

The  drawback  I  speak  of  is  this  :  although  I  have  never  seen  any 
one  of  the  creatures,  it  is  too  certain  that  the  mountains  are  inhabited 
by  a  race  of  Monkeys,  whose  cunning  and  mischievous  talents  exceed 
even  the  most  incredible  stories  of  their  tribe.  No  human  art  or 
vigilance  seems  of  avail  :  v  e  have  planned  ambuscades,  and  watched 
night  after  night,  but  no  attempt  has  been  made  ;  yet  the  moment 
tlie  guard  was  relaxed,  we  were  striijped  without  mercy,  I  am  con- 
vinced they  must  have  had  spies  night  and  day  on  our  motions,  yet 
so  secretly  and  cautiously,  that  no  glimpse  of  one  has  yet  been  seer 
by  any  of  our  people.  Our  last  crop  was  cut  and  carried  off  with  the 
precision  of  an  English  harvesting.  Our  spirit  stores — (you  will  be 
amazed  to  hear  that  these  creatures  pick  locks  with  the  dexterity  of 
London  burglars) — have   been  broken  open  and  ransacked,  though 


598  SONNET  ON  STEAM. 

half  the  establishment  were  on  the  watch  ;  and  the  brutes  have  been 
off  to  their  mountains,  five  miles  distant,  without  even  the  dogs 
eiving  an  alarm.  I  could  almost  persuade  myself  at  times,  such  are 
their  supernatural  knowledge,  swiftness,  and  invisibility,  that  we  have 
to  contend  with  evil  spirits.  I  long  for  your  advice,  to  refer  to  on 
this  subject,  and  am,  dear  PhiUp,  your  loving  brother, 

Ambrose  Mawe. 

P.^".— Since  writing  the  above,  you  will  be  concerned  to  hear  the 
body  of  poor  Diggory  has  been  found,  horribly  mangled  by  wild 
oensts.  The  fate  of  Chippendale,  Gregory,  and  Mudge  is  no  longer 
doubtful.  The  old  Lion  has  brought  the  Lioness,  and  the  sheep 
being  all  gone,  they  have  made  a  joint  attack  upon  the  Bullock-house. 
The  Mudiboo  has  overflowed,  and  Squ.impash  Flatts  are  a  swamp. 
I  have  just  discovered  that  the  Monkeys  ^re  my  own  rascals  that  I 
brought  out  from  England.     We  are  coming  back  as  fast  as  we  cam 


SONNET  ON  STEAM. 

BY   AN    UNDER-OSTLER.* 

I  WISH  I  livd  a  Thowsen  year  Ago 

Wurking  for  Sober  six  and  Seven  milers 

And  dubble  Stages  runnen  safe  and  slo 

The  Orsis  cum  in  Them  days  to  the  Hilers 

But  Now  by  meens  of  Powers  of  Steem  forces 

A-turning  Coches  into  Smoakey  Kettels 

The  Bilers  seam  a  Gumming  to  the  Orses 

And  Helps  and  naggs  Will  sune  be  out  of  Vittels 

Poor  Bruits  I  wunder  How  we  bee  to  Liv 

When  sutch  a  change  of  Orses  is  our  Faits 

No  nothink  need  Be  sifted  in  a  Siv 

May  them  Blowd  ingins  all  Blow  up  their  Grate* 

And  Theaves  of  Osiers  crib  the  Coles  and  Giv 

Their  blackgard  Hannimuls  a  Feed  of  Siaitsl 

•  Comic  Annual,  iSjQk 


4SSSBg^d 


399 


Soap- orifics  and  Sud-onfics. 


A  REPORT  FHOM  BELOW* 

"  Blow  high,  blow  low." — Sea  Song. 

As  Mister  B.  and  Mistress  B. 

One  night  were  sitting  down  to  tea, 

With  toast  and  muffins  hot — 

They  heard  a  loud  and  sudden  bounce. 

That  made  the  very  china  flounce, 

They  could  not  for  a  time  pronounce 

If  they  were  safe  or  shot — 

For  Memory  brought  a  deed  to  match 

At  Deptford  done  by  night  — 

Before  one  eye  appear'd  a  Patch 

In  t'other  eye  a  Blight  ! 

To  be  belabour'd  out  of  life, 

"Without  some  small  attempt  at  strife, 

Our  nature  will  not  grovel  ; 

One  impulse  moved  both  man  and  dam^ 

He  seized  the  tongs^she  did  the  same. 

Leaving  the  ruffian,  if  he  came, 

The  poker  and  the  shovel, 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


400  A  REPORT  FROM  BELOW, 

Suppose  the  couple  standing  so. 
When  rushing  footsteps  from  below 
Made  pulses  fast  and  fervent, 
And  first  burst  in  the  frantic  cat, 
AH  steaming  like  a  brewer's  vat, 
And  then — as  white  as  my  cravat- 
Poor  Mary  May,  the  servant! 

Loid,  how  the  couple's  teeth  did  chatter  I 

Master  and  mistress  both  flew  at  her, 

"Speak!  Fire?  or  Murder?  What's  the  matter ?" 

Till  Mary,  getting  breath, 

Upon  her  tale  began  to  touch 

With  rapid  tongue,  full  trotting,  such 

As  if  she  thought  she  had  too  much 

To  tell  before  her  death  : — 

••We  was  both,  Ma'am,  in  the  washhouse,  Ma'am,  a-standinjj  at  oul 

tubs, 
And  Mrs  Round  was  seconding  what  little  things  I  rubs  ; 
*  Mary,'  says  she  to  me,  '  I  say,' — and  there  she  stops  for  coughin*, 
'That  dratted  copper  flue  has  took  to  smokin'  very  often, 
But  please  the  pigs,' — for  that's  her  way  of  swearing  in  a  passion, 
'  I'll  blow  it  up,  and  not  be  set  a  coughin'  in  this  fashion  !' 
Well,  down  she  takes  my  master's  horn — I  mean  his  horn  for  loading, 
And  empties  every  grain  alive  for  to  set  the  flue  exploding. 
*Lawk,  Mrs  Round  !'  says  I,  and  stares,  'that  quantum  is  unproper ; 
I'm  sartin  sure  it  can't  net  take  a  pound  to  sky  a  copper  ; 
You'll  powder  both  our  heads  off,  so  I  tells  you,  with  its  puff;* 
But  she  only  dried  her  hngers,  and  she  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff. 
Well,  when  the  pincli  is  over — 'Teach  your  grandmother  to  suck 
A  powder-horn,'  says  she. — '  Well,'  says  I,  '  I  wish  you  luck.' 
Them  words  sets  up  her  back,  so  with  her  hands  upon  her  hips, 
'Come,'  says  she,  quite  in  a  huff,  'come,  keep  your  tongue  inside  youi 

lips  ; 
Afore  ever  you  was  born,  I  was  well  used  to  things  like  these; 
I  shall  put  it  in  tlie  grate,  and  let  it  burn  up  by  degrees.' 
So  in  it  goes,  and  bounce — O  Lord  !  it  gives  us  such  a  rattle, 
I  thought  we  both  were  canonized,  like  Sogers  in  a  battle  ! 
Up  goes  the  copper  like  a  squib,  and  us  on  both  our  backs, 
And  bless  the  tubs,  they  bundled  off,  and  split  all  into  cracks. 
Well,  there  I  fainted  dead  away,  and  irxight  have  been  cut  shorter, 
But  Providence  was  kind,  and  brought  me  to  with  scalding  water. 
I  first  looks  round  for  Mrs  Round,  and  sees  her  at  a  distance. 
As  stiff  as  starch,  and  look'd  as  dead  as  anything  in  existence. 
All  scorch'd  and  grimed  ;  and  more  than  that,  I  sees  the  copper  slap 
Right  on  her  head,  for  all  the  world  like  a  percussion  copper  cap. 
Well,  I  crooks  her  little  fingers,  and  crumps  them  well  up  together. 
As  humanity  pints  out,  and  burnt  her  nostrums  with  a  feather ; 
But  for  all  as  I  can  do  to  restore  her  to  her  mortality. 
She  never  gives  a  sign  of  a  return  to  sensuality. 


A  REVORT  J- ROM  BELOW. 


4or 


Thinks  I,  well  there  she  lies,  as  dead  as  my  own  late  departed  mother, 
Well,  she'll  wash  no  more  in  this  world,  whatever  she  does  in  t'other  j 
So  I  gives  myself  to  scramble  up  the  Imens  for  a  minute, 
Lawk,  sich  a  shirt  !  thinks  I,  it's  well  my  master  wasn't  in  it  ; 
Oh  !  I  never,  never,  never,  never,  never,  see  a  sight  so  shockin' ; 
Here  lays  a  leg,  and  there  a  leg — 1  mean,  you  know,  a  stocking — 
Bodies  nil  slit  and  torn  to  rags,  and  many  a  tatter'd  skirt, 
And  arms  burnt  off,  and  sides  and  backs  all  scotch'd  and  black  with 

dirt  ; 
But  as  nobody  was  in  'em — none  but — nobody  was  hurt ! 
Well,  there  I  am,  a-scrambling  up  the  things,  all  in  a  lump, 
When,  mercy  on  us  !  such  a  c:roan  as  makes  my  heart  to  jump  ; 
And  there  she  is,  a-lying  with  a  crazy  sort  of  e\  e, 
A-starmg  at  the  washhouse  roof,  laid  open  to  the  sky : 
Then  she  beckons  with  a  finger,  and  so  down  to  her  I  reaches, 
And  puts  my  ear  agin  her  mouth  to  hear  her  dying  speeches. 
For,  poor  soul !  she  has  a  husband  and  young  orphans,  as  I  knew; 
Well,  Ma'am,  you  won't  believe  it,  but  it's  Gospel  fact  and  true, 
But  these  words  is  all  she  whisper'd — '  Why,  where  is  the  powder 

blew?"' 


"  Skying  a  Copper." 


2  C 


402 


"n  the  Coach  goes  at  six,  pray  whal  lime  goes  the  Casket?" 


THE  LAST  SHILLING* 

HE  was  evidently  a  foreigner,  and  poor.  As  I  sat  at  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  Southgate  stage,  I  took  a  mental  inventory  of  his 
wardrobe.  A  military  cloak  much  the  worse  for  wear — a  blue  coat, 
the  worse  for  tear— a  napless  hat — a  shirt  neither  white  nor  brown — a 
pair  of  mud-colour  gloves,  open  at  each  thumb — grey  trousers  too 
short  for  his  legs — and  brown  boots  too  long  for  his  feet 

From  some  words  he  dropt,  I  found  that  he  had  come  direct  from 
Paris,  to  undertake  the  duties  of  French  teacher  at  an  English 
academy  ;  and  his  companion,  the  English  classical  usher,  had  been 
sent  to  London,  to  meet  and  conduct  him  to  his  suburban  destination. 

Poor  devil  !  thought  I,  thou  art  going  into  a  bitter  bad  line  of  busi- 
ness ;  and  the  hundredth  share  which  I  had  taken  in  the  boyish 
persecutions  of  my  own  French  master — an  emi_Me  of  the  old  noblesse 
— smote  violently  on  my  conscience.  At  Edmonton  the  coach 
stopped.  The  coachman  alighted,  pulled  the  bell  of  a  mansion  in- 
scribed in  large  letters,  Vespasian  House  ;  and  deposited  the 
foreigner's  trunks  and  boxes  on  the  footpath.  The  English  classicaJ 
*  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


THE  LAST  SHILLING.  403 

u§1ier  stepped  briskly  out,  and  deposited  a  shilling  in  the  coachman's 

anticip.itory  hand.  Monsieur  followed  the  example,  and  with  some 
precipitation  prepared  to  enter  the  gate  of  the  fore-garden,  but  the 
driver  stood  in  the  wny. 

"  I  want  another  shillin.?,"  said  the  coachman. 

**  You  agreed  to  take  a  shilling  a  head,"  said  the  English  master. 

"  You  said  you  would  take  one  shilling  for  my  head,"  said  the 
French  master. 

"  It's  for  the  luggage,"  said  the  coachman. 

The  Frenchman  seemed  thunderstruck  ;  but  there  was  no  help  for 
it.  He  pulled  out  a  small  weazle-bellied,  brown  silk  purse,  but  there 
was  nothing  in  it  save  a  medal  of  Napoleon.  Then  he  felt  his  breast- 
pockets, then  his  side-pockets,  and  then  his  waistcoat-pockets  ;  but 
they  were  all  empty,  excepting  a  metal  snuff-box,  and  that  was  empty 
too.  Lastly  he  ielt  the  pockets  in  the  flaps  of  his  coat,  taking  out  a 
meagre  would-be  w  hite  handkerchief,  and  shaking  it ;  but  not  a  dump. 
I  rather  suspect  he  anticipated  the  result — but  he  went  through  the 
operations  seriatim^  with  the  true  French  gravity.  At  last  he  turned 
to  his  companion,  with  a  "Mistare  Barbiere,  be  as  good  to  lend  me 
one  shelling." 

Mr  Barber  thus  appealed  to,  went  through  something  of  the  same 
ceremony.  Like  a  blue-bottle  cleaning  itself,  he  passed  his  hands 
over  his  breast — round  his  hips,  and  down  the  outside  of  his  thighs, — 
but  the  sense  of  feeling  could  detect  nothing  like  a  coin. 

"  You  agreed  for  a  shilling,  and  you  shall  have  no  more,"  said  the 
man  with  empty  pockets. 

"  No— no — no — you  shall  have  no  mor,"  said  the  moneyless  French- 
man. 

By  this  time  the  housemaid  of  Vespasian  House,  tired  of  standing 
with  the  door  in  her  hand,  had  come  down  to  the  garden-gate,  and, 
willing  to  make  herself  generally  useful,  laid  her  hand  on  one  of  the 
foreigner's  trunks. 

"  It  shan't  go  till  I'm  paid  my  shilling,"  said  the  coachman,  taking 
hold  of  the  handle  at  the  other  end. 

The  good-natured  housemaid  instantly  let  go  of  the  trunk,  and 
seemed  suddenly  to  be  bent  double  by  a  violent  cramo,  or  stitch,  in 
her  right  side, — while  her  hand  groped  busily  under  her  gown.  Bui 
it  was  in  vain.  There  was  nothing  in  that  pocket  but  some  curl- 
papers, and  a  brass  thimble. 

The  stitch  or  cramp  then  seemed  to  attack  her  other  side ;  again 
she  stooped  and  fumbled,  while  Hope  and  Doubt  struggled  togethei 
on  her  rosy  face.  At  last  Hope  triumplied, — from  the  extremest  cornei 
of  the  huge  dimity  pouch  she  fished  up  a  solitary  coin,  and  thrust  it 
exultingly  into  the  obdurate  palm. 

"  It  won't  do,"  said  the  coachman,  casting  a  wary  eye  on  the  metal, 
and  holding  out  for  the  inspection  of  the  trio  a  silver-washed  corona- 
tion medal,  which  had  been  purchased  of  a  Jew  for  twopence  the  yeai 
before. 

The  poor  girl  quietly  set  down  the  trunk  which  she  had  again  taken 
up,  and  restored  the  deceitful  medal  to  her  pocket.  In  the  meantime 
the  arithmetical  usher  had  arrived  at  the  gate  in  his  way  out,  bu/  wa» 


404  THE  LAST  SHILLING. 

stopped  by  the  embargo  on  the  luggage.  "  What's  the  matter  now?** 
asked  the  man  of  figures. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  housemaid,  dropping  a  low  curtsey, 
"  it's  this  impudent  fellow  of  a  coachman  will  stand  here  for  his 
rights." 

"  He  wants  a  shilling  more  than  his  fare,"  said  Mr  Barber. 

"  He  does  want  more  than  his  fare  shilling,"  reiterated  the  French- 
man. 

"  Coachman  !  what  the  devil  are  we  wilting  here  for?"  shouted  a 
stentnrian  voice  from  the  rear  of  the  stage. 

"  Bless  me,  John,  are  we  to  stay  here  all  day  ?"  cried  a  shrill  voice 
from  the  stage's  interior. 

"  If  you  don't  get  up  shortly  I  shall  get  down,"  bellowed  a  voice 
from  tlie  box. 

At  this  crisis  the  English  usher  drew  his  fellow-tutor  aside,  and 
whispered  something  in  his  ear  that  made  him  go  throui,'h  the  old 
manual  exercise.  He  slapped  his  pant  iloons — flap;ied  his  coat-tails 
— and  felt  about  his  bosom.  "  I  haven't  got  one."  said  he,  and  with  a 
shake  of  the  head  and  a  hurried  bow,  he  set  otT  at  the  pace  of  a  two- 
penny postman. 

"  I  a' n't  going  to  stand  here  all  day,"  said  the  coachman,  getting 
out  of  all  reasonable  patience. 

"You're  an  infernal  scoundrelly  villain,"  said  Mr  Barber,  getting 
out  of  all  classical  English. 

"You  are  a — what  Mr  Barber  savs,"  said  the  foreigner. 

"  Thank  God  and  his  goodness,"  ejaculated  the  housemaid,  "  here 
comes  the  Doctor;"  and  the  portly  figure  of  the  pedagogue  himsell 
came  striding  pompously  down  the  gravel-v/alk.  He  had  two  thick 
lips  and  a  double  chin,  which  all  began  wa;^ging  together. 

"  Well,  well ;  what's  all  this  argumentative  elocution  ?  I  command 
taciturnity  !" 

"  I'm  a  shilling  short,"  said  the  coachman. 

"  He  says  he  has  got  one  short  sliilling,"  said  the  foreigner. 

"Poo — poo — poo,"  said  the  thick  lips  and  double-chin.  "  Pay  the 
fellow  his  superfluous  claim,  and  aupe  il  to  magisterial  authority." 

"  It's  what  we  mean  to  do,  sir,"  said  the  English  usher,  "but" — ■ 
and  he  laid  his  lips  mysteriously  to  the  Doctor's  ear. 

"A  pecuniary  bagatelle,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  It's  palpable  extortion, 
—but  I'll  disburse  it, — and  you  have  a  legislatorial  remedy  for  his 
avaricious  demands."  As  the  man  of  pomp  said  this,  he  thrust  his 
fore-finger  into  an  empty  waistcoat  pocket — then  into  its  fellow — and 
then  into  every  pocket  he  had — but  without  any  other  product  than  3 
bunch  of  keys,  two  ginger  lozenges,  and  the  French  mark. 

"It's  very  peculiar,"  said  the  Doctor;  "  I  had  a  prepossession  of 
having  currency  to  that  amount.  The  coachman  must  call  to-morrow 
for  it  at  Vespasian  House — or  stay — I  perceive  mv  housekeeper.  Mrs 
Plummer  !  pray  just  step  hither  and  liquidate  this  little  commercial 
obligation." 

Now,  whether  Mrs  Plummer  had  or  had  not  a  shilling,  Mrs  Plum- 
mer only  knows  ;  for  she  did  not  condescend  to  make  any  search  for 
it, — and  if  she  had  none,  she  was  right  not  to  take  the  trouble.     How- 


THE  LAST  SIIILLIXG. 


405 


ever,  she  attempted  to  carry  the  point  by  a  coup  de  main.  Snatching 
up  one  of  the  boxes,  she  motioned  the  housemaid  to  do  the  Hke,  ex. 
claiming  in  a  shrill  treble  key, — "  Here's  a  pretty  work  indeed,  about 
a  paltry  shilling  !  If  it's  worth  having,  it's  worth  calling  again  for, 
• — and  I  suppose  Vespasian  House  is  not  going  to  run  away  !" 

"  But  may  be  /  am/'  said  the  inflexible  coachman,  seizing  a  trunk 
with  each  hand. 

"John,  I  insist  on  being  let  out,"  screnmed  the  lady  in  the  coach. 
"  I  shall  be  too  late  for  dinner,"  roared  the  Thunderer  in  the  dickey. 
As  for  the  passenger  on  the  box,  he  had  made  off  during  the  lattei 
part  of  tlie  altercation. 

''  What  shall  we  do  ?"  said  the  English  classical  usher. 

"  God  and  his  goodness  only  knows  !  "  said  the  housemaid. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  in  this  country,"  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  You  must  pay  the  money,"  said  the  coachman. 

"And  here  it  is,  you  brute,"  said  Mrs  Plummer,  who  had  made 
a  trip  to  the  house  in  the  meantime  ;  but  whether  she  had  coined  it, 
or  raised  it  by  a  subscription  among  the  pupils,  I  know  no  more  than 


The  Man  in  the  Moon. 


406 


Fancy  Portrait :— M    BruneL 


ODE   TO  M.   BRUNEL* 

"  Well  said,  old  Mole  !  canst  work  i'  the  dark  so  fast?  a  worthy  pioneer ! — Hamlet, 

Well  ! — Monsieur  Brunei, 
How  prospers  now  thy  mighty  undertaking, 
To  join  by  a  hollow  way  the  Bankside  friends 
Of  Rotherhithe  and  Wapping  ? 
Never  be  stopping, 
But  poking,  groping,  in  the  dark  keep  making 
An  archway,  underneath  the  Dabs  and  GilTigeons, 
For  Collier  men  and  pitchy  old  Curmudgeons, 
To  cross  the  water  in  inverse  proportion, 
Walk  under  steamboats  under  the  keel's  ridge, 
To  keep  down  all  extortion. 
And  without  sculls  to  diddle  London  Bridge ! 
In  a  fresh  hunt,  a  new  Great  Bore  to  worry. 
Thou  didst  to  earth  thy  human  terriers  follow, 
Hopeful  at  last  from  Middlesex  to  Surrey, 

To  give  us  the  "  View  hollow," 
In  short  it  was  thy  aim,  right  north  and  south, 
To  put  a  pipe  into  old  Thames's  mouth  ; 
Alas  !  half-way  thou  hadst  proceeded,  when 
Old  Thames,  through  roof  not  waterproof, 
Came,  like  "  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men," 

*  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


ODE  TO  M.  BRUNEL. 

And  with  a  mighty  stormy  kind  of  roar, 
Reproachful  of  thy  wrong, 
Burst  out  in  that  old  song 
Of  Incledon's,  beginning  "  Cease,  rude  Bore  ! — ■* 
Sad  is  it,  worthy  of  one's  tears, 

Just  when  one  seems  the  most  successful, 
To  find  one's  self  o'er  head  and  ears 

In  difficulties  most  distressful ! 
Other  great  speculations  have  been  nursed, 

Till  want  of  proceeds  laid  them  on  a  shelf; 
But  thy  concern  was  at  the  worst, 

When  it  began  to  liquidate  itself ! 
But  now  Dame  Fortune  has  her  false  face  hidden, 
And  languishes  thy  Tunnel, — so  to  paint, 
Under  a  slow  incurable  complaint. 

Bed-ridden  ! 
Why,  when  thus  Thames — bed-bother'd — why  repine  1 
Do  try  a  spare  bed  at  the  Serpentine  ! 
Yet  let  none  think  thee  dazed,  or  crazed,  or  stupid  ; 

And  sunk  beneath  thy  own  and  Thames's  craft; 
Let  them  not  style  thee  some  Mechanic  Cupid 

Pining  and  pouting  o'er  a  broken  shaft  ! 
I'll  tell  thee  with  thy  tunnel  what  to  do  ; 
Light  up  thy  boxes,  build  a  bin  or  two, 
The  wine  does  better  than  such  water  trades  : 

Stick  up  a  sign — the  sign  of  the  Bore's  Head; 

I've  drawn  it  ready  for  thee  in  black  lead, 
And  make  thy  cellar  subterrane, — Thy  Shades  i 


407 


The  Broken  Shaft. 


4oS 


A  PLAN  FOR  WRITING  BLANK  VERSE  IN  RHYME, 

IN  A  LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR.* 

RESPECTED  SIR, — In  a  morning  paper  justly  celebrated  for  the 
acuteness  of  its  reporters,  and  their  ahnost  prophetic  insight 
into  character  and  motives— the  Rhodian  len.^nh  of  their  leaps  towards 
results,  and  the  magnitude  of  their  inferences,  beyond  the  drawing  of 
Meux's  dray-horses,— there  appeared,  a  few  days  since,  the  following 
paragraph  : — 

"  Mansion  House.  Yesterday,  a  tall  emaciated  being,  in  a  brown 
coat,  indicating  his  age  to  be  about  forty-five,  and  the  r.ggedness  of 
which  gave  a  great  air  of  mental  ingenuity  and  intelligence  to  his 
countenance,  was  introduced  by  the  officers  to  the  Lord  Mayor.  It 
was  evident  from  his  preliminary  bow  that  he  had  made  some  disco- 
veries in  the  art  of  poetry,  which  he  wished  to  lay  before  his  Lordship, 
but  the  Lord  Mayor  perceiving  by  his  accent  that  he  had  already  sub- 
mitted his  project  to  several  of  the  leading  Publishers,  referred  him 
backtothesame  jurisdiction,  and  the  unfirtunate  Votary  of  the  Muses 
witlidrew,  declaring  by  another  bow,  that  he  should  offer  his  plan  to 
the  Editor  of  the  Comic  Annual." 

The  unfortunate  above  referred  to,  sir,  is  myself,  and  with  regard 
to  the  Muses,  indeed  a  votary,  though  not  a  ^lo  one,  if  the  qualifica- 
tion depends  on  my  pocket— but  for  the  idea  of  addressing  mvself  to 
the  Editor  of  the  "  Comic  Annual,"  I  am  indebted  soleh  to  the  a'ssump- 
tion  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Press.  That  I  have  made  a  discuvery  is 
true,  in  common  vs'ith  Hervey,  and  Herschell,  and  Galileo,  and  Roger 
Bacon, — or  rather,  I  should  say  with  Columbus— my  invention  con- 
cerning a  whole  hemisphere,  as  it  were,  in  the  world  of  poetry — in 
short,  the  whole  continent  of  blank  verse.  To  an  immense  number  of 
readers  this  literary  land  has  been  hitherto  a  complete  ten'a  mcognita, 
and  from  one  sole  reason, — the  want  of  that  harmony  which  makes 
the  close  of  one  line  chime  with  the  end  of  another.  They  have  no 
rehsh  for  numbers  that  turn  up  blank,  and  wonder  accordingly  at  the 
epithet  of  ''  Prize,"  prefixed  to  Poems  of  the  kind  which  emanate  in 
— I  was  going  to  say  from — the  University  of  Oxford.  Thus  many 
very  worthy  members  of  society  are  unable 'to  appreciate  the  Paradise 
Lost,  the  Task,  the  Chase,  or  the  Seasons,— the  Winter  especially— 
without  rhyme.  Others,  again,  can  read  the  Poems  in  question,  but 
with  a  limited  enjoyment  ;  as  certain  persons  can  admire  the  archi- 
tectural beauties  of  Salisbury  steeple,  but  would  like  it  better  with  a 
ring  of  bells.  For  eitlier  of  these  tastes  my  discovery  will  provide, 
without  affronting  the  palate  of  any  other  ;  for  although  the  lover  of 
rhyme  will  find  in  it  a  prodigality  hitherto  unknown,  the  heroic  cha- 
racter of  blank  verse  will  not  suffer  in  the  least,  but  each  line  will 
♦'*  do  as  it  likes  with  its  own,"  and  sound  as  inde()endently  of  the  next 
as  "milkmaid"  and  "water-carrier."  I  have  the  honour  to  subjoin 
*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


A  PLAN  FOR   ri'KniXG  Bl.AAK  VERSE  IN  RHYME. 


409 


a  specimen — nnd  if,  through  your  publicity.  Mr  Murray  should  be 
induced  to  make  mean  offer  for  an  Eclition  of  '•  Paradise  Lost  "  on  this 
principle,  for  the  Family  Library,  it  will  be  nn  eternal  obHggtion  on, 
Respected  Sir,  your  most  obliged,  and  humble  servant. 


*  *  *     *  *  «  * 


A  NOCTURNAL  SKETCH. 

Even  is  come  ;  and  ham  the  dark  Park,  hark,   ' 
The  signal  of  the  settini;  sun — one  ^Un  ! 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime  time 
To  go  and  see  the  Drury-Lane  Dane  slain, — 
Or  hear  Othello's  jealous  doubt  spout  out, — 
Or  Macbeth  raving  at  that  shade-made  blade, 
Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch  ;— 
Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  siride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span  ; 
Or  in  the  small  Olympic  Pic,  sit  spin 
Laughing  at  Liston,  while  you  quiz  his  phiz. 


A-lad-in,  or  the  WonQenul  Lamp. 

Anon  Night  comes,  and  with  her  wini^s  brings  things 
Such  as,  with  his  poetic  tcngue.  Young  sung; 
The  gas  up-blazes  with  its  bright  white  light, 
And  paralytic  watchmen  pruwi,  howl,  growl, 


4IO  A  LETTER  FROM  A  MARKET  GARDENER. 

About  the  streets  and  take  up  Pali-Mall  Sal, 
Who,  hasting  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 

Now  thieves  to  enter  for  your  cash,  smash,  crash, 
Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a  deep  sleep,  creep, 
But  friyhten'd  by  Policeman  B  3,  flee, 
And  while  they're  going,  whisper  low,  "  No  go  !" 

Now  puss,  while  folks  are  in  their  beds,  treads  leads, 
And  sleepers  waking,  grumble — "Drat  that  cat  !" 
Who  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls,  minis 
Some  feline  foe,  and  screams  in  shrill  ill-will. 


White  Favours. 

Now  Bulls  of  Bashan,  of  a  prize  size,  rise 

In  childish  dreams,  and  with  a  roar  gore  poor 

Georgy,  or  Charley,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly  ; — • 

But  Nursemaid,  in  a  nightmare  rest,  chest-press' d, 

Dreameth  of  one  of  her  old  flames,  James  Games, 

And  that  she  hears — what  faith  is  man's  ! — Ann  s  banns 

And  his,  from  Reverend  Mr  Rice,  twice,  thrice  : 

White  ribbons  flourish,  and  a  stout  shout  out, 

That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  those  bows'  woes  ! 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  MARKET  GARDENER  TO 
THE  SECRETARY  OF  THE  HORTICULTURAL 
SOCIETY* 

SIR, — The  Satiety  having  Bean  pleasd  to  Complement  Me  before  I 
beg  Leaf  to  lie  before  Them  agin  as  follow  in  particullers  witch 
I  hop  They  will  luck  upon  with  a  Sowth  Aspic. 
*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  MARKET  GARDENER.  411 

Sir — last  year  I  paid  my  Atentions  to  a  Tater  &  the  Satiety  was 
pleasd  to  be  gr.itifid  at  the  Innlargement  of  my  Kidnis.  This  ear  I 
have  turnd  my  Eves  to  Gozberris. — I  am  happy  to  Say  1  have  allmost 
sucV:sidid  in  Making  them  too  Big  for  Bottlin.  I  beg  to  Present  sum 
of  itch  kind — Pleas  obsarve  a  Green  Goose  is  larger  in  Siz  then  a  Red 
Goosebry.  Sir  as  to  Cherris  my  atention  has  Bean  cheafly  occupid  by 
the  Black  Arts.  Sum  of  them  are  as  big  as  Crickt  Balls  as  will  be  seen 
I  send  a  Sample  tyed  on  a  Wauking-stick.  I  send  lickwise  a  Potle  of 
stray  benis  witch  I  hop  will  reach.  They  air  so  large  as  to  object  to 
lay  more  nor  too  in  a  Bed.  Also  a  Potle  of  Hobbies  and  one  of  my 
rew  Pins,  of  a  remarkably  sharp  flaviour.  I  liop  they  will  cum  to 
Hand  in  time  to  be  at  your  Feat.  Respective  Black  red  &  White 
Currency  I  liave  growd  equely  Large,  so  as  one  Bunch  is  not  to  be  Put 
into  a  Galley  Pot  without  jammmg.  My  Pitches  has  not  ben  Strong, 
and  their  is  no  Show  on  My  Walls  of  the  Plumb  line.  Damsins  will 
Be  moor  Plentifle  &  their  is  no  Want  of  common  Bullies  about  Lunnon. 
Please  inform  if  propper  to  classify  the  blow  with  the  creepers. 
Concerning  Graps  I  have  bin  recommanded  by  mixing  Wines  with 
Warter  Mellons,  the  later  is  improved  in  its  juice — but  have  douts  of 
the  fack.  Of  the  Patgonian  Pickleing  Cou cumber,  I  hav  maid  Trial 
of,  and  have  hops  of  Growing  one  up  to  Markit  by  sitting  one  End 
agin  my  front  dore.  On  account  of  its  Proggressiveness  I  propos 
calling  it  Pickleus  Perriginatus  if  Aproved  of. 

Sir,  about  Improving  the  common  Stocks. — Of  Haws  I  have  some 
hops  but  am  disponding  about  my  Hyps.  I  have  quite  faled  in  cul- 
tuvating  them  into  Criinberris.  I  have  allso  atempted  to  Mull 
Blackberis,  but  am  satisfid  them  &  the  Mulberris  is  of  diferent  Genius. 
Pleas  observ».of  Aples  I  have  found  a  Grafft  of  the  common  Crab 
from  its  Straglin  sideways  of  use  to  Hispalliers.  I  should  lick  to  be 
infourmd  weather  Scotch  Granite  is  a  variety  of  the  Pom  Granite  & 
weather  as  sum  say  so  pore  a  frute,  and  Nothing  but  Stone. 
Sir, —  My  Engine  Corn  has  been  all  eat  up  by  the  Burds  namely  Rocks 
and  Ravines.  In  like  manner  I  had  a  full  Shew  of  Pees  but  was 
distroyd  by  the  Sparers.  There  as  bean  grate  Mischef  dun  beside  by 
Entymollogy — in  some  parts  a  complet  Patch  of  Blight.  Their  has 
bean  a  grate  Deal  too  of  Robin  by  boys  and  men  picking  and  stealing 
but  their  has  bean  so  many  axidents  by  Steel  Traps  I  don't  like  setting 
on  'em. 

Sir  I  partickly  wish  the  Satiety  to  be  called  to  considder  the  Case 
what  fuUows,  as  I  think  mite  be  maid  Transaxtionable  in  the  next 
Reports. — 

My  Wif  had  a  Tomb  Cat  that  dyd.  Being  a  torture  Shell  and  a 
Grate  feverit,  we  had  Him  berrid  in  the  Guardian,  and  for  the  sake 
of  inrichment  of  the  Mould  I  had  the  carks  deposeted  under  the  roots 
of  a  Gosberry  Bush.  The  Frute  being  up  till  then  of  the  binooth  kind. 
But  the  next  Seson's  Frute  after  the  Cat  was  berrid,  the  Gozberris 
was  all  hairy. — &  moor  Remarkable  the  Catpilers  of  the  same  bush, 
was  All  of  the  same  hairy  Discription.  I  am  Sir  Your  humbla 
servant  THOMAS  FROST. 


412 


DOMESTIC    ASIDES, 


OR,  TRUTH  IN  PARENTHESES. 


"  I  REALLY  take  it  very  kind, 
This  vi>it,  Mrs  Skinner  ! 
I  have  not  seen  you  such  an  as^e, — 
(The  wretch  has  come  to  dinner  !) 

"  Your  daughters,  too,  what  loves  of 

girls — 
What  heads  for  painters'  easels  ! 
Come  here  and  kiss  the  infant,  dears, — 
(And  give  it  p'rhaps  the  measles  !) 

"  Your  charming  boys  I  see  are  home 
From  Reverend  Mr  Russel's  ; 
'Twas  very  kind  to  bring  them  both, — 
(What  boots  for  my  new  Brussels  !) 

"  What !  little  Clara  left  at  home? 
Well  now  I  call  that  shabby  : 
I  should  have  loved  to  kiss  her  so, — 
(A  flabby,  dabby,  babby  !) 


"  And  Mr  S.,  I  hope  he's  well, 
Ah  !  though  he  lives  so  handy, 
He  never  now  drops  in  to  sup, — 
(The  better  for  our  brandy  !) 

"  Come,  take  a  seat — I  long  to  hear 

About  Matilda's  marriage  ; 

You're  come  of  course  to  spend  the 

day,  — 
(Thank  Heaven,  I  hear  the  carriage  !) 

<'  What !  must  you  go  ?— next  time  I 

hope 
You'll  give  me  longer  measure  ; 
Nay,  I  shall  see  you  down  the  stairs, — 
(With  most  uncommon  pleasure  !) 

"  Good-bye  !  good-bye  !  remember  all, 
Next  lime  you'll  take  your  dinners! 
(Now,  David,  mind  I'm  not  at  home 
In  future  to  the  Skinners  ! ") 


A  Moderate  Income. 
♦  Comic  Annual,  1831, 


413 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  ABROAD.* 

I  ONCE,  for  a  very  short  time  indeed,  bad  the  honour  of  being  a 
schoohnaster,  and  was  invested  with  the  import;int  office  of 
"rearing  the  tender  thought,"  and  "teaching  the  young  idea  how  to 
shoot  ;"  of  educating  in  the  principles  of  the  Establisiied  Church,  and 
bestowing  the  strictest  attention  to  morals.     The  case  was  this  :  my 

young   friend  G ,    a  graduate  of  Oxford,  and   an   ingenious  and 

worthy  man,  thought  proper,  some  months  back,  to  establish,  or 
endeavour  to  establish,  an  academy  for  young  gentlemen,  in  my 
immediate  vicinity.  He  had  already  procured  nine  day-pupils  to  begin 
with,  whoiti  he  himself  taught, — prudence  as  yet  prohibiting  the  em- 
ployment of  ushers, — when  he  was  summoned  hastily  to  attend  upon 
a  dying  relative  in  Hamishire,  from  wliom  he  h  id  some  expectations. 
This  was  a  dilemma  to  poor  G ,  who  had  no  one  to  leave  in  charge 


A  Branch  Coach. 

of  his  three  classes  ;  and  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  playing  truant 
himself  so  soon  after  commencing  business.  In  his  extremity  he 
applied  to  me  as  his  forlorn  hope,  and  one  forlorn  enough  ;  for  it  is 
well  known  among  my  friends,  that  I  have  little  Latin,  and  less  Greek, 
*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


414  THE  SCHOOLMASTER  ABROAD,      ' 

and  am,  on  every  account,  a  worse  accountant.     I  urged  these  objec« 

tions  to  G ,  but  in  vain,  for  he  had  no  "friend  in  need,"  learned 

or  unlearned,  within  any  reasonable  distance  ;  and,  as  he  said  to  com- 
fort me,  "in  three  or  four  days  merely  the  boys  could  not  unlearh 
much  of  anything." 

At  last  I  gave  way  to  his  importunity.  On  Thursday  night,  he 
started  from  the  tree  of  kno\vled<;e  by  a  branch  coach  ;  and  at  nine 
on  Friday  morning,  I  found  myself  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  novel 
character  of  pedagogue.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  not  one  of  the  boys  played 
truant,  or  was  confined  at  home  with  a  violent  illness.  There  they 
were,  nine  little  mischievous  wretches,  goggling,  tiltti  ng,  pointing, 
winking,  grimacing,  and  mocking  at  authority,  in  a  way  enough  to 
invoke  two  Elisha  bears  out  of  Southgate  Wood.  To  put  a  stop  to 
this  indecorum,  I  put  on  my  spectacles,  stuck  my  cane  upright  in  the 
desk,  with  the  fool's-cap  atop — but  they  inspired  little  terror  ,  worn 
out  at  last,  I  seized  the  cane,  and  rushing  from  my  dais,  well  flogged 
— I  believe  it  is  called  flogging— the  boy,  a  Creole,  nearest  me  ;  who, 
though  far  from  the  biggest,  was  much  more  daring  and  impertinent 
than  the  rest.  So  far  my  random  selection  was  judicious  ;  but  it 
appeared  afterwards,  that  I  had  chastised  an  only  son,  whose  mother 
had  expressly  stipulated  for  him  an  exemption  from  all  punishment. 
I  suspect,  with  the  moral  prudence  of  tond  mothers,  she  had  informed 
the  little  imp  of  the  circumstance,  for  this  Indian-Pickle  fought  and 
kicked  his  preceptor  as- unceremoniously  as  he  would  have  scuffled 
with  Black  Diana  or  Agamemnon.  My  first  move,  however,  had  a 
salutary  effect ;  the  urchins  settled,  or  made  believe  to  settle,  to  their 
tasks  ;  but  I  soon  perceived  that  the  genuine  industry  and  application 
belonged  to  one,  a  clever-looking  boy,  who,  with  pen  and  paper  before 
him,  was  sitting  at  the  further  end  of  a  long  desk,  as  great  a  contrast 
to  the  others  as  the  Good  to  the  Bad  Ap()rentice  in  Hogarth.  I 
could  see  his  tongue  even  at  work  aJ-  one  corner  of  his  mouth, — a 
very  common  sign  of  boyish  assiduity,  -and  his  eyes  never  left  his 
task  but  occasion ;Uly  to  glance  towards  his  master,  as  if  in  anticipa- 
tion of  the  approving  smile,  to  which  he  looked  forward  as  the  prize 
of  industry.  I  had  already  selected  him  inwardly  for  a  favourite,  and 
resolved  to  devote  my  best  abilities  to  his  instruction,  when  I  saw 
him  hand  the  paper,  with  a  sly  glance,  to  his  neighbour,  from  whom 
it  passed  vapidly  down  the  desk,  accompanied  by  a  running  titter,  and 
sidelong  looks,  that  convinced  me  the  supposed  copy  was,  indeed,  a 
copy  not  of  "  Obey  your  superiors,"  or  "  Ai;e  commands  respect,"  but 
of  the  head  of  the  college,  and,  as  a  glimpse  showed,  a  head  with  very 
ludicrous  features.  Being  somewhat  fatiL:ued  with  my  last  execution, 
I  suffered  the  cane  of  justice  to  sleep,  and  inflicted  the  fools'-cap — 
literally  the  fool's — for  no  clown  in  pantomime,  the  great  Giimaldi  not 
excepted,  could  have  made  a  more  laughter-stirring  use  of  the  costume. 
The  little  enormities,  who  only  tittered  before,  now  shouted  outright, 
and  nothing  but  the  enchanted  wand  of  bamboo  could  flap  them  into 
solemnity.  Order  was  restored,  for  they  saw  I  was,  like  Earl  Grey, 
resolved  to  "stand  by  my  order  ;  "  and  while  I  was  deliberating  in 
some  perplexity,  how  to  begin  business,  the  two  biggest  boys  came 
forward  voluntarily,  and  standing  as  much  as  they  could  in  a  circle^ 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  ABROAD. 


41S 


presented  themselves,  nnd  began  to  read  as  the  first  Greek  class. 
Mr  Irving  m;iy  boast  of  his  prophets  as  much  as  he  will  ;  but  in  pro- 
portion to  num'iers  of  our  congregations,  I  had  far  more  reason  to  be 
proud  ot  my  gabblers  in  an  unknown  tongue.  I,  of  course,  discovered 
no  lapsus  lingua  in  the  performance,  and  after  a  due  course  of  gibberish, 
the  first  class  dismissed  itself  with  a  brace  of  bows  and  an  evident 
degree  of  self-satisfaction  at  being  so  r-erfect  in  the  present,  after  being 
so  imperfect  in  the  past.  I  own  this  first  act  of  our  solemn  farce  made 
me  rather  nervous  against  the  next,  which  proved  to  be  the  Latin  class, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  to  an  adept  would  have  seemed  as  much  a  Latin 
comedy  as  those   performed   at  the   Westminster   School.     We  got 


A  Second  Course. 

through  the  second  course  quite  correct,  as  before,  and  I  found,  with 
some  satisfaction,  that  the  third  was  a  dish  of  English  Syntax,  where 
I  was  able  to  detect  flaws,  and  the  heaps  of  errors  that  I  had  to  arrest 
made  me  thoroughly  sensible  of  the  bliss  of  ignorance  in  the  Gnek 
and  Latin.  A  general  lesson  in  English  reiding  ensued,  through 
which  we  glided  smoothly  enough,  till  we  came  to  a  sandbank  in  the 
shape  of  a  Latin  quotation,  which  I  was  requested  to  English.  It  was 
something  like  this  : — "  Nemo  mortalius  omnibus  hora  sapit,"  which  I 
rendered,  "  No  mortal  knows  at  what  hour  the  omnibus  starts" — and 
witn  this  translation  the  whole  school  was  perfectly  satisfied.  Nine 
more  bows. 

My  horror  now  approached  :  I  saw  the  little  wretches  lug  out  theit 


4i6 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  ABROAD. 


slates,  and  begin  to  cutf  out  the  old  sums,  a  sight  that  m  de  me  wish  .ill 
the  slates  at  the  roof  of  the  house.  I  knew  very  well  that  when  th.; 
army  of  nine  attacked  my  Bonny-castle,  it  would  not  long  hold  out. 
Unluckily,  from  inexperience,  I  gave  them  all  thj  same  question  to 
worlc,  and  the  consequence  was,  eajh  brought  up  a  different  result — 
nor  would  my  practical  knowledge  of  Practice  allow  me  to  judj;e  of 
their  merits.  I  had  no  resource  but,  Lavater-like,  to  go  by  Physi- 
ognomy, and  accordingly  selected  t'ne  solution  of  the  most  mathe- 
maticd-looking  boy.  But  Lavater  betrayed  m?.  M.ister  W.iiie,  a 
chowder-headed  lout  of  a  1  id,  as  dull  as  a  pig  of  lead,  and  as  muHshly 
obstinate  as  Muley  Abdallah,  persisted  that  his  answer  was  correct, 
and  at  last  a.jpealed  to  the  suuerior  authority  of  a  Tutor's  Key,  thai 
he  had  kept  by  stealth  in  his  desk.  From  this  instant  my  importance 
declined,  and  the  urchins  evid  -ntly  began  to  question,  with  some  jus- 
tice, what  right  I  had  to  rule  nine,  who  was  not  competent  to  the  Rule 
of  Three.     By  way  of  a  diversion,  I  invit  jd  my  pupils  to  a  walk  ;   but 

1  wish  G had  been  more  circumstantial  in  his  instructions  before 

he  left.  Two  of  the  boys  pi -ad  d  sick  headaches  to  remain  behind; 
and  I  led  the  rest,  through  my  arithmetical  failure,  undjr  very  slender 


Di-.uving  Lots. 


government,  bv  the  most  unfortunate  route  I  could  have  chosen,— in 
fact,  past  the  verv  windows  of  their  parents,  wh)  complained  after- 
wards, that  they  walked  more  like  bears  than  boys,  and  that  if  Mr 


7'HE  SCHOOLMASTER  ABROAD,  417 

G  ■  -■  had  drawn  lots  for  one  at  a  raffle,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
unfortunate  in  his  new  usher. 

To  avoid  observation,  which  I  did  not  court,  I  led  them  aside  into  a 
meadow,  and  pulling  out  a  volume  of  "  P  iradise  Lost,"  left  the  boys 
to  amuse  themselves  as  they  pleased.  They  pleased,  accordingly,  to 
get  up  a  little  boxin<^-match,  a-la-Crib  and  Alolineux — between  Master 
\\  hite  and  the  little  Creole,  of  which  I  was  informed  only  by  a  final 
shout  and  a  stre.m  of  blood  that  trickled,  or  treacled,  from  the  flat 
nose  of  the  child  of  colour.  Luckily,  as  I  thought,  he  was  near  home, 
whither  I  sent  him  for  washing  and  consolation,  and  in  return  for 
which,  in  the  course  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  while  still  in  the  field,  a 
black  footman,  in  powder  blue  turned  up  with  yellow,  brought  me  the 
following  note : — 

"  Mrs.  Col.   Christopher  informs   Mr  G 's  Usher,  that  as  the 

vulgar  practice  of  pugilism  is  allowed  at  Spring  Grove  Academy, 
Master  Adolphus  Ferdinand  Christopher  will  in  future  be  educated  at 
home;  particularly  as  she  understands  Master  C.  was  punished  in  the 
morning,  in  a  way  that  only  becomes  blacks  and  slaves. — To  the  new 
Usher  at  Mr  G 's." 

Irritated  at  this  event  and  its  commentary,  I  resolved  to  punish 
Master  White,  but  Master  White  was  nowhere  to  be  found,  having 
expelled  him-elf  and  run  away  home,  where  he  complained  to  his 
parents  of  the  new  usher's  deficiencies,  and  told  the  whole  story  of 
the  sum  in  Practice,  begging  earnestly  to  be  removed  from  a  school 
where,  as  he  said,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  improve  himself.  The 
prayer  of  the  petition  was  heard,  and  on  the  morrow,  Mr  White's  son 
was  minus  at  Spring  Grove  Academy.  Calling  in  the  remainder,  I 
ordered  a  march  homewards,  where  I  arrived  just  in  time  to  hear  the 
sham  headaches  of  the  two  invalids  go  off  with  an  alarming  explosion 
—for  they  had  thus  concerted  an  opportunity  for  playing  with  gun- 
powder and  prohibited  arms.  Here  was  another  discharge  from  the 
school,  for  no  parents  think  that  their  children  look  the  better  without 
eyebrows,  and  accordingly,  when  they  went  home  for  the  night,  the 
fathers  and  mothers  resolved  to  send  them  to  some  other  school, 
where  no  powder  was  allowed,  except  upon  the  head  of  the  master. 
I  was  too  much  hurt  to  resume  schooling  after  the  boys'  b  id  behaviour, 
and  so  gave  them  a  half-holiday  ;  and  never,  oh  never,  did  I  so  esti- 
mate the  blessing  of  sleep,  as  on  that  night  when  I  closed  my  eyelids 
on  all  my  pupils  !  But,  alas  !  sleep  brought  its  sorrows  : — I  saw  boys, 
fighting,  flourishing  slates,  and  brandishing  squibs  and  crackers  in  my 
visions  ;  and  through  all, —  such  is  the  transparency  of  dreams, — I  be- 
held the  stern  shadow  of  G looking  unutterable  reproaches. 

The  next  morning,  with  many  painful  recollections,  brought  one  of 
pleasure  ;  I  remembered  that  it  was  the  King's  Birthday,  and  in  a  fit 
of  very  sincere  loyalty,  gave  the  whole  school — alas  !  reduced  by  one 
half — a  whole  holiday.  Thus  I  got  over  the  end  of  the  week,  and 
Sunday,  literally  a  day  of  rest,  was  spent  by  the  urchins  at  their  own 
homes.     It  may  seem  sinful  to  wish  for  the  death  of  a  fellow-creature, 

but  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  G 's  relative  along  with  what  is 

2  D 


4i8 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  ABROAD. 


called  a  happy  release  -■>  and  he  really  was  so  kind,  as  we  learned  by 

an  express  from  G ,  as  to  break-up  just  after  his  arrival,  and  that 

G consequently  would   return  in   time   to  resume  his  scholastic 

duties  on  the  Monday  morning.     With  infinite  pleasure  I  heard  this 

good  bad  news  from  Mrs  G ,  who  never  interfered  in  the  classical 

part  of.the  house,  and  was  consequently  all  unconscious  of  the  reduc- 
tion in  the  Spring  Grove  Establishment.  I  forged  an  excuse  for 
immediately  leaving  off  school;  "resigned,  I  kissed  the  rod"  that  I 
resigned,  and  as  I  departed  no  master  but  my  own,  was  overwhelmed 


»  "Coming  Events  cast  (heir  Sh.  dows  before." 

by  a  torrent  of  grateful  acknowledgments  of  the  service   I  had  done 

the  school,  which,  as  Mrs  G protested,  could  never  have  got  on 

without  me.     How  it  got  on  I  left  G to  discover,  and  I  am  told 

he  behaved  rather  like  Macduff  at  the  loss  of  his  '"little  ones" — but 
luckily,  I  had  given  myself  warning  before  his  arrival,  and  escaped 
from  one  porch  of  the  Academy  at  that  nick  of  time  when  the  Archo- 
didasculus  was  entering  by  another,  perfectly  convinced  that,  how- 
ever adapted  to  "  live  and  learn,"  I  should  never  be  able  to  live  and 
teach. 


419 

SKETCHES  ON  THE  ROAD* 
THE  OBSERVER. 

"  TT'S  very  strange,"  said  the  coachman, — looking  at  me  over  hit 

X  left  shoulder — "  I  never  see  it  afore — But  I've  made  three  obser- 
vations through  life." 

Bat — so  called  for  shortness,  though  in  feet  and  inches  he  was  rather 
an  Upper  Benjamin — was  anything  but  what  Othello  denominates 
"a  puny  whipster."  He  had  brandished  the  whip  for  full  thirty 
years,  at  an  average  of  as  many  miles  a  day ;  the  product  of  which, 
calculated  according  to  Cocker,  appears  in  a  respectable  sum  total  of 
six  figures  deep. 

Now  an  experience  picked  up  in  a  progress  of  some  three  hundred 
thousand  miles  is  not  to  be  slighted  ;  so  I  leaned  with  my  best  ear 
over  the  coachman's  shoulder,  in  order  to  catch  every  syllable. 

"  I  have  set  on  the  box,  man  and  boy,"  said  Bat,  looking  straight 
ahead  between  his  leaders,  "  a  matter  of  full  thirty  year,  and  what's 
more,  never  missing  a  day — barring  the  Friday  I  was  married  ;  and 
one  of  my  remarks  is — I  never  see  a  sailor  in  top-boots," 

"  Now,  I  think  of  it,  Bat,"  said  I,  a  little  disconcerted  at  my  wind- 
fall from  the  tree  of  knowledge,  "  I  have  had  some  experience  in 
travelling  myself,  and  certainly  do  not  recollect  such  a  phenomenon." 

"  I'll  take  my  oath  you  haven't,"  said  Bat,  giving  the  near  leader  a 
little  switch  of  self-satisfaction  :  "  I  once  driv  the  Phenomenon  myself. 
There's  no  such  thing  in  nature.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  remarkable 
remark  I've  made  through  life — I  never  yet  see  a  Jew  pedlar  with  a 
Newfoundland  dog." 

"  As  for  that.  Bat,"  said  I,  perhaps  willing  to  retort  upon  him  a 
little  of  my  own  disappointment,  "though  I  cannot  call  such  a  sight 
to  mind — I  will  not  undertake  to  say  I  have  never  met  with  such  an 
association." 

"  If  you  have,  you're  a  lucky  man,"  said  Bat,  somewhat  sharply, 
and  with  a  smart  cut  on  the  wheeler  ;  "  I  belong  to  an  association  too, 
and  we've  none  of  us  seen  it.  There's  a  hundred  members,  and  I've 
inquired  of  every  man  of 'em,  for  it's  my  remark.  But  some  people 
see  a  deal  more  than  their  fellows.  Mayhap  you've  seen  the  other 
thing  I've  observed  through  life,  and  that's  this — I've  never  observed  a 
black  man  driving  a  long  stage." 

"Never,  Bat,"  said  I,  desiring  to  conciliate  him,  "never  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  stage  practice  ;  and  for  many  years  of  my  life  I 
was  a  daily  visitant  to  Richmond.'' 

"  And  no  one  else  has  ever  seen  it,"  said  Bat.  "  That's  a  correct 
remark,  anyhow.  As  for  Richmond,  he  never  drove  a  team  in  his 
life,  for  I  asked  him  the  question  mvself,  just  after  his  fight  with 
Shelton." 

•  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


420 


SKETCHES  ON  THE  ROAD. 


THE  CONTRAST, 

« I  hope  the  Leviathan  is  outward-bound,"  I  ejaculated,  half  aloud, 
as  I  beheld  the  kit-kat  portion  of  the  Man-Mountain  occupying  tbe 
whole  frame  of  the  coach-window.  But  Hope  deceived  as  usual  ;  and 
in  he  came. 

I  ought  rather  to  have  said  he  essayed  to  come  in, — for  it  was  only 
after  repeated  experiments  upon  material  substances,  that  he  contrived 
to  enter  the  vehicle  edgeways,— if  such  blunt  bodies  may  be  said  to 


The  Great  Mail  Contractor. 


have  an  edge  at  nil.  As  I  contemplnted  his  bulk,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  mighty  Lambert,  and  was  ready  to  exclaim  with 
Gratiano,  "  A  Daniel '  a  second  Daniel  !" 

The  Brobdingnngginn  had  bart-ly  subsided  in  his  seat,  when  the 
opposite  door  opened,  and  in  stepped  a  Lilliputian  !  The  conjunction 
was  whimsical.  Yonder,  thought  I,  is  the  Irish  Giant,  and  the  other 
is  the  dwarf.  Count  Borulawski.  This  coach  is  their  travelling  cara- 
van— and  as  for  myself,  I  am  no  doubt  the  showman. 

I  was  amusing  myself  with  this  and  kindred  fancies,  when  n  hand 
suddenly  held  up  something  at  the  coach-window.  "  It's  my  luggage,' 
said  the  Giant,  with  a  small  penny-trumpet  of  a  pipe,  and  taking  po3» 
session  of  a  mere  golden  pippin  of  a  bundle. 


SKETCHES  ON  THE  R<>AD. 


421 


"The  three  large  trunks  and  the  big;^^est  carpet-bag  are  »y  pro- 
perty," said  tlie  Dwarf,  with  a  voice  ;is  unexpectedly  stentorian. 

"Warm  day,  sir,"  sque:iked  the  Giant  by  way  of  small  talk. 

"  Prodigious  preponderance  of  calorix;  in  the  atmosphere,"  thundered 
the  Dwarf,  by  way  of  big  talk. 

"  Have  you  paid  your  fare,  gentlemen .? "  asked  the  coachman, 
lookmg  in  at  the  door. 

"  I  have  paid  half  of  mine,"  said  the  Stupendous,  "and  its  booked. 
My  name  is  Lightfoot." 

"  Mine  is  Heavyside,"  said  the  Pigmy,  "and  I  have  disbursed  the 
sum  total." 

The  door  slammed — the  whip  cracked — sixteen  horseshoes  made  a 
clatter,  and  away  bowled  the  "  New  Safety  ; "  but  had  barely  rolled  two 
hundred  yards,  when  it  gave  an  alarming  bound  over  some  loose 
paving  stones,  followed  by  a  very  critical  swing.  The  Dwarf,  in  a 
tone  louder  than  ever,  gave  vent  to  a  prodigious  oath  ;  the  Giant  said, 
•'  Dear  me  !  " 

There  will  something  come  of  this,  said  I  to  mvself ;  so  feigning 
sleep,  I  leaned  back  m  a  corner,  w  ith  a  wary  ear  to  their  conversation. 
The  Gog  had  been  that  morning  to  the  Exhibition  of  Fleas  in  Regent 
Street,  and  thought  them  '"prodigious!"  The  Runtling  had  visited 
the  Great  Whale  at  Charing-Cross,  and  "thought  little  of  it."  The 
Goliah  spoke  with  wonder  of  the  "vast  extent  of  view  from  the  top  of 
the  Monument."  The  David  was  "disappointed  by  the  prospect  from 
Plinlimmon."  The  Hurlothrumbo  was  "amazed  by  the  grandeur  of 
St  Paul's."  The  Tom  Thumb  spoke  slii;htingly  of  St  Peter's  at 
Rome.  In  theatricals  their  taste  held  the  same  mathematical  propor- 
tion. Gog  "  must  say  he  liked  the  Minors  best."  The  "  Wee  Thing" 
declared  for  the  Majors.  The  Man-]\Iountain's  favourite  was  Miss 
Foote  =  \.\st\\&  inches.     The  Manikin  preferred  Miss  0/i^//'^=eighteen. 


The  Great  Desert— Halt  of  the  Caravan. 


The  conversation  and  the  contrast  flourished  in  full  flower  through 
several  stages,  till  we  stopped  to  dine  at  the  SaHsbury  Arms,  and 
then — 


«M  JOHN  DAY. 

The  Folio  took  a  chair  at  the  ordinary — 

The  Duodecimo  required  "  a  room  to  himself 

The  Puppet  bespoke  a  leg  of  mutton — 

The  Colossus  ordered  a  mutton-chop. 

The  Imp  rang  the  bell  for  "  the  loaf" — 

The  Monster  called  for  a  roll. 

A  magnum  of  port  was  decanted  for  the  Minimum — 

A  short  pint  of  sherry  was  set  before  the  Maximum. 

We  heard  the  Mite  bellowing  by  himself,  "  The  Sea  i  the  Sea  !  the 
open  Sea ! " 

The  Mammoth  hummed  "The  Streamlet." 

The  Tiny,  we  learned,  was  bound  to  Plimpton  Magna— 

The  Huge,  we  found,  was  going  to  Plimpton  Parva. 

A  hundred  other  circumstances  have  escaped  from  Memory  through 
the  holes  that  time  has  made  in  her  sieve :  but  I  remember  distinctly, 
as  we  passed  the  bar  in  our  passage  outwards,  that  while 

The  Pigmy  bussed  the  landlady — a  buxom  widow,  fat,  fair,  and 
forty — 

The  Giant  kissed  her  daughter — a  child  ten  years  old,  and  remark- 
ably snuji  for  her  age. 


JOHN  DA  Y. 

A  PATHETIC  BALLAD.* 
"A  Day  after  the  Fair."— OW  Proverb 

John  Day  he  was  the  biggest  man 

Of  all  the  coachman  kind, 
With  back  too  broad  to  be  conceived 

By  any  narrow  mind. 

The  very  horses  knew  his  weight 

When  he  was  in  the  rear, 
And  wishd  his  box  a  Christmas-box 

To  come  but  once  a  year. 

Alas  !  against  the  shifts  of  love 

What  armour  can  avail  ? 
Soon  Cupid  sent  an  arrow  through 

His  scarlet  coat  of  maiL 

The  barmaid  of  the  Crown  he  lovej, 
From  whom  he  never  ranged  ; 

For  though  he  changed  his  horses  there, 
His  love  he  never  changed. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


JOHN  DA  f.  m 

He  thought  her  fairest  of  all  fares, 

So  fondly  love  prefers  ; 
And  often,  among  twelve  outsides, 

Deem'd  no  outside  like  hers. 

One  day  as  she  was  sitting  down 

Beside  the  porter-pump, 
He  came,  and  knelt  with  all  his  fat, 

And  made  an  offer  plump. 

Said  she,  "  My  taste  will  never  learn 

To  like  so  huge  a  man, 
So  1  must  beg  you  will  come  here 

As  little  as  you  can." 

But  gtill  he  stoutly  urged  his  suit, 

With  vows,  and  sighs,  and  tears, 
Yet  could  not  pierce  her  heart,  allhougfc 

He  drove  the  "  Dart  "  for  years. 

In  vain  he  woo'd,  in  vain  he  sued  ; 

The  maid  was  cold  and  proud. 
And  sent  him  off  to  Coventry, 

While  on  his  way  to  Stroui 

He  fretted  all  the  way  to  Stroud, 

And  thence  all  back  to  town  ; 
The  course  of  love  was  never  smooth^ 

So  his  went  up  and  down. 

At  last  her  coldness  made  him  pine 

To  merely  bones  and  skin, 
But  still  he  loved  like  one  resolved 

To  love  through  thick  and  thin. 

*  O  Mary  !  view  my  wasted  back, 

And  see  my  dwindled  calf ; 
Though  I  have  never  had  a  wif(^ 

I've  lost  my  better  half." 

Alas  !  in  vain  he  still  assail'd. 

Her  heart  withstood  tlie  diut ; 
Though  he  had  carried  sixteen  stonfl^ 

He  could  not  move  a  flint. 

Worn  out,  at  last  he  made  a  vow 
To  break  his  being's  link  ; 


424 


JOHN  DA  Y. 

For  he  was  so  reduced  in  size 
At  nothing  he  could  shrink. 

Now  some  will  talk  in  water's  praise, 

And  waste  a  deal  of  breath, 
But  John,  though  he  drnnk  nothing  else, 

He  drank  himself  to  death. 

The  cruel  maid  that  caused  his  love 

Found  out  the  fatal  close, 
For  looking  in  the  butt,  she  saw 

The  butt-end  of  his  woes. 


Some  say  his  spirit  haunts  the  Crowa^ 

But  that  is  only  talk — 
For  after  riding  all  his  life. 

His  ghost  objects  to  walk. 


The  Box  Seat. 


4=5 


THE  PARISH  RE  VOL  UTION* 


"  From  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  is  but  a  step." 

Alarming  news  from  the  co^mtry  —Awful instirrection  at  Stoke  T ogh 
— The  Military  called  out— Flight  of  the  Mayor. 

WE  are  concerned  to  state,  that  accounts  were  received  in  town  at 
a  late  liour  last  night,  of  an  alarming  state  of  things  at  Stoke 
Pogis.  Nothing  private  is  yet  made  public  ;  but  reports  speak  of 
very  serious  occurrences.  The  number  of  killed  i?  not  known,  as  no 
despatches  have  been  received. 

Further  Particulars, 

Nothing  is  known  yet  ,  papers  have  been  received  down  to  the  4tl" 
of  November,  but  they  are  not  up  to  anythmg. 

Further  further  Particulars.    (^Private  Letter^ 

It  is   scarcely  possible   for  you,  my  dear  Charles,  to  conceive  the 
difficulties  and  anarchic. d  manifestations  of  turbulence,  which  threaten 
*  Comic  Annual,  1S31. 


♦26  THE  PARISH  REVOLUTIOI^. 

and  disturb  your  old  birthpla'-e,  poor  Stoke  Pogis.  To  the  reflecting 
mind,  the  circumstances  which  hourly  transpire  afford  amplfi  food  for 
speculation  and  moral  reasoning.  To  see  the  constituted  authorities 
of  a  place,  however  mistaken  or  misc^uided  by  erring  benevolence, 
plunging  into  a  fearful  struggle  with  an  irritated,  infuriated,  and  I  may 
say,  armed  populace,  is  a  si.,'ht  which  opens  a  field  for  terrified  con- 
jecture. I  look  around  me  with  doubt,  agitation,  and  dismay  ;  bee  luse, 
whilst  I  venerate  those  to  whom  the  sway  of  a  part  of  a  state  may  be 
said  to  be  intrusted,  I  cannot  but  yield  to  the  conviction  that  the 
abuse  of  power  must  be  felt  to  be  an  overstep  of  authority  in  the  best 
intentioned  of  the  MaL;istracy.  This  even  you  will  allow.  Being  on 
the  spot,  my  dear  Charles,  an  eye-witness  of  these  fearful  scenes,  1 
feel  how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  give  you  nny  idea  of  the  prospects 
which  surround  me.  To  say  that  I  think  all  will  end  well,  is  to  tres- 
pass beyond  the  confines  of  hope  ;  but  whilst  I  admit  that  there  is 
strong  ground  for  apprehending  the  worst,  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to 
the  conviction,  that  if  firm  measures,  tempered  with  concession,  be 
resorted  to,  it  is  far  from  being  out  of  the  pale  of  probability  that 
serenity  may  be  re-established.  In  hazarding  this  conclusion,  how- 
ever, you  must  not  consider  me  as  at  all  forgetting  the  responsibilities 
which  attach  to  a  decidedly  formed  opinion.  O  Charles  !  you  who 
are  in  the  quiet  of  London,  can  little  dream  of  the  conflicting  elements 
which  form  the  storm  of  this  devoted  village,  I  fear  you  will  be 
wearied  with  all  these  details  ;  but  I  thought  at  this  distance,  at 
whi(  h  you  are  from  me,  you  would  wish  me  to  run  the  risk  of  wearying 
you  rather  than  omit  any  of  the  interesting  circumstances.  Let  Ed- 
ward read  this  ;  his  heart,  wiiich  I  know  beats  for  the  Parish,  will 
bleed  for  us.     I  am,  &c  H.  J.  P. 

P.S. — Nothing  further  has  yet  occurred,  but  you  shall  hear  from  me 
again  to-morrow. 

Another  Account. 

Symptoms  of  disunion  have  for  some  time  past  prevailed  between 
the  authorities  of  Stoke  Pogis,  and  a  part  of  the  inhabitants.  The 
primum  mobile  or  first  mobbing,  originated  in  an  order  of  the  Mayor's, 
that  all  tavern  doors  snould  shut  at  eleven.  Many  complied,  and 
shut,  but  the  door  of  the  Rampant  Lion  openly  resisted  the  order. 
A  more  recent  notice  has  produced  a  new  and  more  dangerous  irri- 
tation on  our  too  combustible  population.  A  proclamation  against 
Guy  Fauxes  and  Fireworks  was  understood  to  be  in  preparation, 
by  command  of  the  chief  Magistrate.  If  his  Worship  had  listened  to 
the  earnest  and  prudential  advice  of  the  rest  of  the  bench,  the  obnoxi- 
ous placard  would  not  have  been  issued  till  the  6th,  but  he  had  it 
posted  up  on  the  4th,  and  by  his  precipitation  has  plunged  Stoke 
Pogis  into  a  convulsion,  that  nothing  but  Time's  soothing  syrup  can 
alleviate. 

From  another  quarter. 

We  are  all  here  in  the  greatest  alarm  !  a  general  rising  of  the  in' 
habitants  took  place  this  morning,  and  they  have  continued  in  a  di» 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION.  4^9 

turbed  state  ever  since.  Everybody  is  in  a  bustle  and  indicating 
some  popular  movement.  Seditious  cries  are  heard  !  the  bell-man  is 
going  his  rounds,  and  on  repeating  "  God  save  the  King  !"_is  saluted 
with  "  Hang  the  crier  !"  Organized  bands  of  boys  are  going  about 
collecting  sticks,  &c..  whether  for  barricades  or  bonfires  is  not  known  ; 
many  of  them  siii'^ingthe  famous  Gunpowder  Hvmn,"Pray  remember," 
&c.  These  are  features  that  remind  us  of  the  most  inflammable  timesi 
Several  strangers  of  suspicious  gentility  arrived  here  last  ni-ht,  and 
privately  engaged  a  barn  ;  they  are  now  busily  distributing  handbills 
amongst  the  crowd  :  surely  some  horrible  tragedy  is  in  preparation  ! 

A  Later  Account. 
The  alarm  increases.  Several  families  have  taken  flight  by  the 
waggon,  and  the  office  of  Mr  Stewart,  the  overseer,  is  besieged  by 
persons  desirous  of  being  passed  to  their  own  parish.  He  seems 
embarrassed  and  irresolute,  and  returns  evasive  answers.  The  worst 
fears  are  entertaining. 

Fresh  ItttcUi^ettce. 

The  cause  of  the  overseer's  hesitation  has  transpired.  The  pass-cart 
and  horse  have  been  lent  to  a  tradesman,  for  a  day's  pleasure,  and  are 
not  returned.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  indignation  of  the  paupers ! 
they  are  all  pouring  towards  the  poorhouse,  headed  bv  Timothy 
Gubbins,  a  desperate  drunken  character,  but  the  idol  of  the  Workhouse. 
The  constables  are  retiring  before  this  formidable  body.  The  follow- 
ing notice  is  said  to  be  posted  up  at  the  Town-hail:    "Stick  No 

Bills." 

Eleven  d clock. 

The  mob  have  proceeded  to  outrage— the  poor  poorhouse  has  not  a 
whole  pane  of  glass  in  its  whole  frame  !  The  magistrates,  with  Mr 
Higginbottom  at  their  head,  have  agreed  to  cal"!  out  the  militnry  ; 
and  he  has  sent  word  that  he  will  come  as  soon  as  he  has  put  on  his 
uniform. 

A  terrific  column  of  little  boys  has  just  run  down  the  High  Street, 
it  is  said  to  see  a  fight  at  the  Green  Dragon.  There  is  an  immense 
crowd  in  the  Market-place.  Some  of  the  leading  shopkeepers  have 
had  a  conference  with  the  Mayor,  and  the  people  are  now  being  iii- 
formed  by  a  placard  of  the  result.  Gracious  heaven  !  how  opposite  is 
it  to  the  hopes  of  all  moderate  men— "The  Mare  is  Hobstinate— He 
is  at  the  Roes  and  Crown — But  refuses  to  treat." 

Twelve  d  clock. 

The  military  has  arrived,  and  is  placed  under  his  own  cornmand. 
He  has  marched  himself  in  a  body  to  the  market-place,  and  is  now 
drawn  up  one  deep  in  front  of  the  Pound.  The  mob  are  in  possession 
of  the  walls,  and  have  chalked  upon  them  the  following  proclamation: 
•'  Stokian  Pogians  be  firm  !  stick  up  for  bonfires !  stand  to  your 
squibs ! " 

Quarter-past  Twelve. 

Mr  Wigsby,  the  Master  of  the  Free  School,  has  declared  on  the 
side  of  Liberty,  and  has  obtained  an  audience  of  the  Mayor.  He  is 
to  return  in  fifteen  minutes  for  his  Worship's  decision. 


42S 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION. 


Half-^ast  Twelve. 
During  the  interval,  the  Mayor  has  sworn  in  two  special  constables, 
and  will  concede  nothing.  When  the  excittintni  ot  the  mob  was 
represented  to  him  by  Mr  Wigsby,  he  pointed  to  a  truncheon  on  a 
table,  and  answered,  "  They  may  do  their  worse=t."  The  exaspera- 
tion is  awful — the  most  frightful  cries  are  uttered,  "  Huzza  for  Guys  ! 
Gubbins  for  ever!  and  no  Hii^t^rnbottom  !  "  The  military  has  been 
ordered  to  clear  the  streets,  but  his  lock  is  not  flinty  enough,  and  his 
gun  refuses  to  fire  on  the  people. 

The  constables  have  just  obtained  a  sli.ii^ht  advantage,  they  made  a 
charge  altogether,  and  almost  upset  a  Guy.  On  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  way  they  have  been  less  successful  ;  Mr  Huggins,  the  beadle, 
attempted  to  ta'.ce  possession  of  an  important  street  post,  but  was 
repulsed  by  a  boy  with  a  cracker.  At  the  same  moment  Mr  Blogg, 
the  churchwarden,  was  defeated  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  force  a 
passage  up  a  court. 

One  d clock. 

The  military  always  dines  at  one,  and  has  retreated  to  the  Pig  and 
Puncheon.  There  is  a  report  that  the  head  constable  is  taken  with 
all  his  staff. 

Two  d  clock. 

A  flying  watchman  has  just  informed  us  that  the  police  are  victo- 
rious on  all  points,  and  the  same  has  been  confirmed  by  a  retreating 


Good  Entertainment  for  Man  and  Horse. 

constable.     He  states  that  the  Pound  is  full — Gubbins  in  the  stocks^ 


THE  PA  RISH  RE  VOL  UTI017.  4x9 

nrd  Dobbs  in  the  c  ige.     That  the  whole  mob  would  have  been  routed 
but  for  a  very  corpulent  man,  vifho  rallied  them  on  running  away. 

Half-past  three. 

The  check  sustained  by  the  mob  proves  to  have  been  a  reverse, 
the  constables  are  the  sulterers.  The  cage  is  chopped  to  faggots,  we 
haven't  a  pound,  and  the  stocks  are  rapidly  falling.  Mr  Wigsby  has 
gone  again  to  the  Mavor  with  overtures,  the  people  demand  the 
release  of  Dubbs  and  Gubbins,  and  the  demolition  of  the  stocks,  the 
pound,  and  the  ca'-^e.  As  these  are  already  destroyed,  and  Gul)bins 
and  Dobbs  are  at  large,  it  is  confidently  hoped  by  all  moderate  men, 
that  his  Worship  will  accede  to  the  terms. 

Fo2ir  d  clock. 

The  Mayor  has  rejected  the  terms.  It  is  confidently  affirmed  that 
after  this  decision,  he  secretly  order°d  a  post-chaise,  and  has  set  off 
with  a  pair  of  post-horses  as  fast  as  they  can't  gallop.  A  meeting  of 
the  principal  tradesmen  has  taken  place,  and  the  butcher,  the  baker, 
the  grocer,  the  cheesetnonger,  and  the  pitblican,  have  agreed  to 
compose  a  Provisional  Government.  In  the  meantime  the  mob 
are  loud  in  their  joy, — they  are  letting  off  squibs  and  crackers, 
and  rockets,  and  devils,  in  all  directions,  and  quiet  is  completely 
restored. 

We  subjoin  two  documents, — one  containing  the  articles  drawn  up 
by  the  Provisional  Government  and  Mr  Wigsby ;  the  other,  the 
genuine  narrative  of  a  spectator. 

Dear  Charles, — The  events  of  the  last  few  hours,  since  I  closed 
my  minute  n  until  >n,  are  pregnant  with  fate  :  and  no  words  that  I 
can  utter  on  pap  r  will  j^ive  you  an  idea  of  their  interest.  Up  to  the 
hour  at  whicli  I  closed  my  sheet,  anxiety  regulated  the  movement  of 
every  watchful  bosom  ;  but  since  then,  the  approaches  to  tranquillity 
have  met  with  barriers  and  interruptions.  To  the  meditative  mind, 
these  popular  paroxysms  have  their  desolating  deductions.  Oh,  my 
Charles,  I  myself  am  almost  sunk  into  an  Agitator — so  much  do  we 
take  the  colour  from  the  dye  in  which  our  reasoning  faculties  :;re 
steeped.  I  stop  the  press — yes,  Charles,  I  stop  the  press  of  c'^cum- 
Btances  to  say,  that  a  dawn  of  the  Pacific  is  gleaming  over  the  Atlantic 
of  our  disturbances  ;  and  I  am  enabled,  by  the  kindness  of  Constable 
Adams,  to  send  you  a  Copy  of  the  Preliminaries,  which  are  pretty 
well  agreed  upon,  and  only  wait  to  be  ratified.  I  close  my  letter  in 
haste.  That  peace  may  descend  on  the  Ohve  Tree  of  Stoke  Pogis,  is 
the  earnest  prayer  of,  &c.  H.  J.  P. 

P.S. — Show  the  Articles  to  Edward.  He  will,  with  his  benevolence, 
at  once  see  that  they  are  indeed  precious  articles  lor  Stoke  Pogis. 

CONDITIONS. 

1.  That  for  the  future,  widows  in  Stoke  Pogis  shall  be  allowed  their 
thirds,  and  Novembers  their  fifths. 

2.  That  the  property  of  Guys  shall  be  held  inviolable,  and  thrie 
persons  respected. 


4.50 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION. 


3.  That  no  arson  be  allowed,  but  all  bonfires  shall  be  burnt  by  the 
common  hangman. 

4.  That  every  rucket  shall  be  allowed  an  hour  to  leave  the  place. 

5.  That  the   freedom    of   Stoke    Pogis    be   presented   to   Madame 
Hengler,  in  a  cartridge-box. 

6.  That  the  military  shall  not  be  called  out,  uncalled  for. 

7.  That  the  parish  beadle,  for  the  time  being,  be  authorised  to  stand 
no  nonsense. 

8.  That  his  Majesty's  mail  be  permitted  to  pass  on  the  night  in 
question. 

9.  That  all  animosities  be  buried  in  oblivion,  at  the  Parish  expense. 
10,  That  the  ashes  of  old  bontires  be  never  r..ked  up. 

(  W'AGSTAFF,  High  Constable. 

)  WiGSBY. 


{Signed) 


An  Anti  Climax. 


The  Narrowtiv  of  a  High  IVIiitness  who  seed  every  Think  proceed  out 
of  a  Back-winder  up  Fore  Fears  to  Mrs  Hutnphris. 

O  Mrs  Humphris  !  Littel  did  I  Dram,  at  my  Tim  of  Life,  to  see 
Wat  is  before  me.  The  hole  Parrish  is  Throne  into  a  pannikin  ! 
The  Revelations  has  reeched  Stock  Poggis — and  the  people  is  riz  agin 
the  Kings  rain,  and  all  the  Pours  that  be.  All  this  Blessed  Mourning 
Mrs  Griggs  and  Me  as  bean  siting  abscondmgly  at  the  tiptop  of  the 
Hows  crymg  tor  lowness.  We  have  lackd  our  too  selves  in  the  back 
Attical  Rome,  and  nothing  can  come  up  to  our  Hanksiety.  Some 
say  it  'S  like  the  Frentch  Plot— sum  say  sum  thing  moor  arter  the 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION. 


431 


Dutch  Patten  is  on  the  car-pit,  and  if  so  we  shall  Be  flored  like  BruS" 
sels.     Well,  I  never  did  like  them  Brown  holLind  brum  gals. 

Our  Winder  overlooks  all  the  High  Street,  xcept  jest  ware  Mistet 
Higgins  jutts  out  Behind.  What  a  prospectus  ! — All  riotism  and 
hubbub. — There  is  a  lowd  speechifying  round  the  Gabble  end  of  the 
Hows.  The  Mare  is  arranging  the  Populous  from  one  of  his  own  long 
winders. — Poor  Man  ! — for  all  his  fine  goold  Cheer,  who  wood  Sit  in 
his  shews  I 

I  hobserve  Mr  Tuder's  baiild  hed  uncommon  hactiv  in  the  Mobb, 
and  so  is  Mister  Waggstaff  the  Constable,  considdering  his  rummatiz 
has  only  left  one  Harm  disaffected  to  show  his  loyalness  with.  He 
and  his  men  air  staving  the  mobbs  Heds  to  make  them  Suppurate, 
They  are  trying  to  Custardise  the  Ringleders  But  as  yet  hav  Capti- 
vated Noboddy.  There  is  no  end  to  accidence.  Three  unsensible 
boddis  are  Carrion  over  the  way  on  Three  Cheers,  but  weather  Nay- 
bers  or  Gyes,  is  dubbious.  Master  GoUop  too,  is  jest  gon  By  on  one 
of  his  Ants  Shuters,  with  a  Bunch  of  exploded  Squibs  gone  off  in  his 
Trowsirs.  It  makes  Mrs  G.  and  Me  tremble  like  Axle  trees,  for  our 
Hone  nevvies.  Wile  we  ware  at  the  open  Winder  they  sliped  out. 
With  sich  Broils  in  the  Street  who  nose  what  Scraps  they  may  git 


Breaking  the  News, 

into.  Mister  J.  is  gon  off  with  his  muskitry  to  militate  agin  the  mobb  % 
and  I  fear  without  anny  Sand  Witches  in  his  Cartrich  Box.  Mrs 
Griggs  is  in  the  Sam  state  of  Singularity  as  meself.  Onely  think.  Mrs 
H.  of  two  Loan  Wiming  looken  Down  on  such  a  Heifervescence,  and 
as  Hignorant  as  the  unbiggotted  Babe  of  the  state  of  our  Husbandry  I 
to  had  to  our  Convexity,  the  Botclier  has  not  Bean      No  moor  as  the 


43? 


THE  FA  RISH  RE  I  'OL  Ul  ION- 


Backer  and  We  shold  here  Nothing  if  Mister  Higgins  hadn't  hollowed 
up  Fore  Storys.  What  news  he  brakes  !  That  wicked  VVigsby  as 
reffused  to  Reed  the  Riot  Ax,  and  the  Town  Clark  is  no  Schollard ! 
Isn't  that  a  bad  Herring  ! 

O  Mrs  Humphris  !  It  is  unpossible  to  throe  ones  hies  from  one 
End  of  Stock  Poggis  to  the  other,  without  grate  Pane.  Nothing  is 
seed  but  Wivs  asking  for  Huzbinds — nothing  is  heard  but  childerin 
looking  for  Farthers.  Mr  Hatband  the  Undertacker  as  jist  bean 
squibed  and  obligated  for  safeness  to  inter  his  own  Hows.  Mr  Hig- 
gins blames  the  unflexable  Stubbleness  of  the  Marc  and  says  a  littel 
timely  Concusion  wood  have  been  of  Preventive  Servis.  Haven  nose  ! 
For  my  Part  1  don't  believe  all  the  Concussion  on  Hearth  wood  hav 
prevented  the  Rc.uolater  bein  scarified  by  a  Squib  and  runnin  agin 
the  Rockit — or  that  it  could  unshatter  Pore  Master  GoUup,  or  squentch 
Wider  Welshis  rix  of  Haze  witch  is  now  Flamming  and  smocking  in 
two  volumes.  The  ingins  as  been,  but  could  not  Play  for  want  of 
Pips  witch  is  too  often  the  Case  with  P.irrish  inginuity.  Wile  aftares 
are  in  this  friteful  Posturs,  thank  Haveu  I  have  one  grate  comfit.  Mr 
J  is  cum  back  on  his  legs  from  Twelve  to  one  tired  in  the  extreams 
with  Being  a  Standing  Army^  and  his  Uniformity  '^patterdashed  all 
over.  He  says  his  hone  saving  was  onely  thro  leaving  His  retrench- 
ments. 


The  Eagle  Assurance. 

Pore  Mr  Griggs  has  cum  in  after  his  Wif  in  a  state  of  grate  ex- 
aggeration. He  says  the  Boys  hav  maid  a  Bone  Fire  t.f  his  garden 
fence  and  Pales  upon  Pales  cant  put  it  out.     Severil  Shells  of  a  bom- 


THE  PARISH  REVOLUTION. 


433 


bastic  nater  as  been  picked  up  in  his  Back  Yard  and  the  old  Cro's  nest 
as  been  Perpetrated  rite  thro  by  a  Rockit.  We  hav  sent  out  the  Def 
Shopman  to  here  wat  he  can  and  he  says  their  is  so  Manny  Crackers 
going  he  dont  no  witch  report  to  Belive,  but  the  Fishmongerers  has 
Cotchd  and  with  all  his  Stock  compleatly  Guttid.  The  Brazers  next 
Dore  is  lickwise  in  Hashes, — but  it  is  hopped  he  has  assurance  enuf 
to  cover  him  All  over. — They  say  nothing  can  save  the  Dwellins  ad- 
journing. O  Mrs  H.  how  greatful  ought  J.  and  I  to  bee  that  our  hone 
Premiss  and  propperty  is  next  to  nothing  !  The  effex  of  the  lit  on 
Bildings  is  marvulous.  The  Turrit  of  St  Magnum  Bonum  is  quit 
clear  and  you  can  tell  wat  Time  it  is  by  the  Clock  verry  planely  only 
it  stands  ! 

The  noise  is  enuf  to  Drive  won  deleterious  !  Too  Specious  Con- 
estabblesis  persewing  littel  Tidmash  down  the  Hi  Street  and  Sho  grate 
fermness,  but  I  trembel  for  the  Pelisse.  Peple  drop  in  with  New 
News  every  Momentum.  Sum  say  All  is  Lost — and  the  town  Criar 
is  missin.  Mrs  Griggs  is  quit  retched  at  herein  five  littel  Boys  is 
thrown  off  a  spirituous  Cob  among  the  Catherend  Weals.  But  I 
hope  it  wants  cobbobboration.  Another  Yuth  its  sed  has  had  his  hies 
Blasted  by  sum  blowd  Gun  Powder.  You  Mrs  H.  are  Patrimonial, 
and  may  supose  how  these  flying  rummers  Upsetts  a  Mothers  Sperrits. 

O  Mrs  Humphris  how  I  envy  you  that  is  not  tossing  on  the  ragging 
bellows  of  these  Flatulent  Times,  but  living  under  a  Mild  Dispotic 


Tumultum  in  Parvo. 


Govinment  in  such  Sequestrated  spots  as  Lonnon  and  Padington. 
May  you  never  go  thro  such  Transubstantiation  as  I  have  bean  riting 
in  !  Things  that  stood  for  Sentries  as  bean  removed  in  a  Minuet — 
and  the  verry  effigis  of  wat  was  venerablest  is  now  Burning  in  Bone 
Fires.  The  Worshipful!  chaer  is  emty.  The  Mare  as  gon  off  clan- 
destiny  with  a  pare  of  Hossis,  and  without  his  diner.  They  say  he 
complanes  that  his  Corperation  did  not  stik  to  him  as  it  shold  have 
dun  But  went  over  to  the  other  Side.     Pore  Sole — in  sich  a  case  I 

2  E 


434  THE  FURLOUGH. 

dont  wunder  he  lost  his  Stommich.  Yisterdy  he  was  at  the  summut 
of  Pour.  Them  that  hours  ago  ware  enjoying  parrish  officiousness  as 
been  turned  out  of  there  Dignittis  !  Mr  Barber  says  in  futer  all  the 
Perukial  Authoritis  will  be  Wigs. 

Pray  let  me  no  wat  his  Magisty  and  the  Prim  Minestir  think  & 
Stock  Poggis's  constitution,  and  believe  me  conclusively  my  deer 
Mrs  Humphris  most  frendly  and  truUy  BRIDGET  JONES. 


THE    FURLOUGH, 

AN   IRISH   ANECDOTE.* 
"Time  was  called." — Boxiatuu 

IN  the  autumn  of  1825,  some  private  affairs  called  me  into  the  sister 
kingdom  ;  and  as  I  did  not  travel,  like  Polyphemus,  with  my  eya 
out,  1  gathered  a  few  samples  of  Irish  character,  amongst  which  was 
the  loUowing  incident. 

I  was  standing  one  morning  at  the  window  of  "mine  inn,"  when  my 
attention  was  attracted  by  a  scene  that  took  place  beneath.  The 
Belfast  coach  was  standing  at  the  door,  and  on  the  roof,  in  front,  sat 
a  solitary  outside  passenger,  a  iine  young  fellow  in  the  uniform  of  the 
Conn  lULiht  R  ingerSo  Below,  by  the  front  wheel,  stood  an  old  woman, 
seemingly  his  mother,  a  young  man,  and  a  younger  woman,  sister  01 
sweetheart ;  and  they  were  all  earnestly  entreating  the  young  soldier 
to  descend  from  his  seat  on  the  coach. 

"  Come  down  wid  ye,  Thady," — the  speaker  was  the  old  woman, — • 
"'  coine  down  now  to  your  ould  mother.  Sure  it's  flog  ye  they  will, 
and  strip  the  flesh  off  the  bones  I  giv  ye.    Come  down,  Thady,  darlin  !  " 

"  It's  honour,  mother,"  was  the  short  reply  of  the  soldier  ;  and  with 
clenched  hands  and  set  teeth  he  took  a  stiffer  posture  on  the  coach. 

"  Thady,  come  down — come  down,  ye  fool  of  the  world — come  along 
down  wid  ye  !"  The  tone  of  the  present  appeal  was  more  impatient 
and  peremptory  than  the  last  ;  and  the  answer  was  more  promptly 
and  sternly  pronounced  :  "  It's  honour,  brother!"  and  the  body  of  the 
speaker  rose  more  rigidly  erect  than  ever  on  the  roof. 

"  O  Thady,  come  down  !  sure  it's  me,  your  own  Kathleen,  that  bids 
ye.  Come  down,  or  ye'U  break  the  heart  of  me,  Thady,  jewel ;  come 
d"wn  then  !"  The  poor  girl  wrung  her  hands  as  she  said  it,  and  cast 
a  look  upward,  that  liad  a  visible  effect  on  the  muscles  of  the  soldier's 
countenance..  There  was  more  tenderness  in  his  tone,  but  it  conveyed 
the  same  resolution  as  before. 

"  It's  honour,  honour  bright,  Kathleen  !"  and,  as  if  to  defend  him- 
self from  another  glance,  lie  fixed  his  look  steadfastly  in  front,  while 
the  renewed  entreaties  burst  from  all  three  in  chorus,  with  the  same 
answer. 

"  Come  down,  Thady,  honey  ! — Thady,  ye  fool,  come  down  ! — O 
Thady,  come  down  to  me  I" 

•  Comic  Annual,  1 830. 


THE  FURLOUGH.  43$ 

**  It's  honour,  mother  ! — It's  honour,  brother  : — Honour  bright,  my 

own  Kathleen  ! " 

Although  the  poor  fellow  was  a  private,  this  appeal  was  so  pubhc. 
that  I  did  not  hesitate  to  go  down  and  inquire  into  the  particulars  of 
the  distress.  It  appeared  that  he  had  been  home,  on  furlough,  to  visit 
his  fimily, — and  having  exceeded  as  he  thought  the  term  of  his  leave, 
he  was  going  to  rejoin  his  regiment,  and  to  undergo  the  penalty  of  his 
neglect.     I  asked  him  when  the  furlough  expired. 

"The  first  of  March,  your  honour — b;id  luck  to  it  of  all  the  black 
days  in  the  \\orld — and  here  it  is,  come  sudden  on  me  like  a  shot !" 

"  The  first  of  March  ! — why,  my  good  fellow,  you  have  a  day  to 
spare  then, — the  first  of  March  will  not  be  here  till  to-morrow.  It  is 
Leap  Year,  and  February  has  twenty-nine  days." 

The  soldier  was  thunderstruck. — "Twenty-nine  days  is  it? — You're 
sartin  of  that  same! — O  Mother,  Mother!— the  Divil  fly  away  wid 
yere  ould  Almanack — a  base  cratur  of  a  book,  to  be  deceaven  one, 
afther  living  so  long  in  the  family  of  us  ! " 

His  first  impulse  was  to  cut  ;i  caper  on  the  roof  of  the  coach,  and 
throw  up  his  cap,  with  a  loud  Hurrah  I — His  second,  was  to  throw 
himself  into  the  arms  of  his  Kathleen,  and  the  third,  was  to  wring  my 
hand  off  in  acknowledgment. 

"  It's  a  happy  man  I  am,  your  Honour,  for  my  word's  saved,  and 
all  by  your  Honour's  manes. — Long  life  to  your  Honour  for  the  samel 
—May  ye  live  a  long  hundred — and  lape-years  every  one  of  them  1 " 


436 


Single  Blessedness, 


NUMBER  ONE* 

VERSIFIED   FROM   THE   PROSE   OF   A   YOUNG  LADV* 

It's  very  hard  ! — and  so  it  is, 

To  live  in  such  a  row, — 

And  witness  this,  that  every  Miss 

But  me,  has  got  a  Beau. 

For  Love  goes  calling  up  and  down, 

But  here  he  seems  to  shun  ; 

I'm  sure  he  has  been  ask'd  enough 

To  call  at  Number  One  ! 

I'm  sick  of  all  the  double  knocks 

That  come  to  Number  Four  ! 

At  Number  Three,  I  often  see 

A  lover  at  the  door  ; — 

And  one  in  blue,  at  Number  Two, 

Calls  daily  like  a  dun. 

It's  very  hard  they  come  so  near 

And  not  to  Number  One  ! 

•  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


NUMBER  ONE.  ^ 

Miss  Bell,  I  heai-,  has  got  a  dear 

Exactly  to  her  mind, — 

By  sitting  at  the  window-pane 

Without  a  bit  of  blind  ; — 

But  I  go  in  the  balcony, 

Which  she  has  never  done, 

Yet  arts  that  thrive  at  Number  Five 

Don't  take  at  Number  One  ! 

'Tis  hard  with  plenty  in  the  street, 

And  plenty  passing  by, — 

There's  nice  young  men  at  Number  TeQ^ 

But  only  rather  shy  ; — 

And  Mrs  Smith  across  the  way 

Has  got  a  grown-up  son, 

But  la  !  he  hardly  seems  to  know 

There  is  a  Number  One  ! 

There's  Mr  Wick  at  Number  Nine, 

But  he's  intent  on  pelf. 

And  though  he's  pious,  will  not  love 

His  neighbour  as  himself. 

At  Number  Seven  there  was  a  sale— 

The  goods  had  quite  a  run  ! 

And  here  I've  got  my  single  lot 

On  hand  at  Number  One  ! 

My  mother  often  sits  at  work 

And  talks  of  props  and  stays. 

And  what  a  comfort  I  shall  be 

In  her  declining  days  : 

The  very  maids  about  the  house 

Have  set  me  down  a  nun — 

The  sweethearts  all  belong  to  then 

That  call  at  Number  One  ! 

Once  only,  when  the  ilue  took  fire, 
One  Friday  afternoon, 
Young  Mr  Long  came  kindly  in 
And  told  me  not  to  swoon  : — 
Why  can't  he  come  again  without 
The  Phoenix  and  the  Sun  ! — 
We  cannot  always  have  a  flue 
On  fire  at  Number  One  ! 

I  am  not  old  !  I  am  not  plain  t 

Nor  awkward  in  my  gait ; 

I  am  not  crooked,  like  the  bride 

That  went  from  Number  Eight  :— 

I'm  sure  white  satin  made  her  look 

As  brown  as  any  bun — 

But  even  beauty  has  no  chance, 

I  think,  at  Number  One  ! 


438 


THE  DROWNING  DUCKS. 

At  Number  Six  they  say  Miss  Rose 

Has  slain  a  score  of  hearts, 

And  Cupid,  for  her  sake,  has  been 

Quite  prodigal  of  darts. 

The  Imp  they  show  with  bended  bow, 

I  wish  he  had  a  gun  ! — 

But  if  he  had,  he'd  never  deign 

To  shoot  with  Number  One. 

It's  very  hard,  and  so  it  is, 

To  live  in  such  a  row  ! 

And  here's  a  ballad-singer  come 

To  aggravate  my  woe  ; — 

Oh,  take  away  your  foolish  song 

And  tones  enough  to  stun — 

There  is  "  Nae  luck  about  the  house,** 

I  know,  at  Number  One ! 


A  Double  Knock. 


THE  DROWNING  DUCKS* 

Amongst  the  sights  that  Mrs  Bond 

Enjoy'd  yet  grieved  at  more  than  others, 

Were  little  ducklings  in  a  pond, 
Swimming  about  beside  their  mothers — 

Small  things  like  living  waterlilies, 

But  yellow  as  the  AziHo-dillies. 

"  It's  very  hard,"  she  used  to  moan, 
"That  other  people  have  their  ducklings 

To  grace  their  waters — mine  alone 
Have  never  any  pretty  chucklings." 

For  why  ! — each  little  yellow  navy 

Went  down — all  downy — to  old  Davy  ! 
*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


THE  DROWNING  DUCKS.  439 

She  had  a  lake — a  pond  I  mean — 

Its  wave  was  rather  thick  than  pearly  ; 

She  had  two  ducks,  their  napes  were  green- 
She  had  a  drake,  his  tail  was  curly  \— 

Yet  spite  of  drake,  and  ducks,  and  pond, 

No  little  ducks  had  Mrs  Bond  ! 

The  birds  were  both  the  best  of  mothers — 
The  nests  had  eggs — the  eggs  had  luck— 

The  infant  D.'s  came  forth  like  others — 
But  there,  alas  !  the  matter  stuck  ! 

They  might  as  well  have  all  died  addlA 

As  die  when  they  began  to  paddle  ! 

For  when,  as  native  instinct  taught  her, 

The  mother  set  her  brood  afloat. 
They  sank  ere  long  right  under  water. 

Like  any  overloaded  boat ; 
They  were  web-footed  too  to  see, 
As  ducks  and  spiders  ought  to  be  1 

No  peccant  humour  in  a  gander 

Brought  havoc  on  her  little  folks,— 
No  poaching  cook — a  frying  pander 

To  appetite, — destroy'd  their  yolks  ;— 
Beneath  her  very  eyes,  Od'  rot  'em  ! 
They  went,  like  plummets,  to  the  bottom. 

The  thing  was  strange — a  contradiction 

It  seem'd  of  Nature  and  her  works  ! 
For  little  ducks,  beyond  conviction. 

Should  float  without  the  help  of  corks: 
Great  Johnson  it  bewilder'd  him 
To  hear  of  ducks  that  could  not  swim. 

Poor  Mrs  Bond  !  what  could  she  do 

But  chan^^e  the  breed — and  she  tried  diver% 

Which  dived  as  all  seem'd  born  to  do  ; 
No  little  ones  were  e'er  survivors — 

Like  those  that  copy  gems,  I'm  thinking, 

They  were  all  given  to  die-sinking  ! 

In  vain  their  downy  coats  were  shorn  ; 

They  flounder'd  still ! — Batch  after  batch  went  • 
The  little  fools  seem'd  only  born 

And  hatch'd  for  nothing  but  a  hatchment  ! 
Whene'er  they  launch'd — O  sight  of  wonder  ! 
Like  fires  the  water  "got  them  under  !" 

No  woman  ever  gave  their  lucks 

A  better  chance  than  Mrs  Bond  did  : 


440  THE  DROWNING  DUCKS. 

At  last,  quite  out  of  heart  and  ducks, 

She  gave  her  pond  up,  and  desponded  ; 
For  Death  among  the  waterlilies 
Cried  "  Dtic  ad  me  "  to  all  her  dillies  ! 

But  though  resolved  to  breed  no  more. 
She  brooded  often  on  this  riddle — 

Alas  !  'twas  darker  than  before  ! 
At  last,  about  the  summer's  middle, 

What  Johnson,  Mrs  Bond,  or  none  did, 

To  clear  the  matter  up  the  Sun  did  ! 

The  thirsty  Sirius,  doglike,  drank 
So  deep,  his  furious  tongue  to  cool, 

The  shallow  waters  sank  and  sank. 
And  lo  !  from  out  the  wasted  pool, 

Too  hot  to  hold  them  any  longer. 

There  crawl'd  some  eels  as  big  as  conger  I 

I  wish  all  folks  would  look  a  bit 
In  such  a  case  below  the  surface  ; 

But  when  the  eels  were  caught  and  split 
By  Mrs  Bond,  just  think  of /^^r  face, 

In  each  inside  at  once  to  spy 

A  duckling  turn'd  to  giblet-pie  ! 

The  sight  at  once  explain'd  the  case, 
Makmg  the  Dame  look  rather  silly; 

The  tenants  of  that  Eely  Place 

Had  found  the  way  to  Pick  a  dilly, 

And  so,  by  under-water  suction, 

Had  wrought  the  little  ducks'  abduction. 


A  Poacher. 


441 


Too  Cold  to  Bear. 


AN  ASSENT  TO  THE  SUMMUT  OF  MOUNT 
BLANKS 

IT  was  on  the  ist  of  Augst, — I  remember  by  my  wags  cumming 
dew,  and  I  wanted  to  be  riz, — that  Me  and  master  maid  our  minds 
up  to  the  Mounting.  I  find  Master  as  oppend  an  acount  with  the 
Keep  Sack — but  as  that  is  a  cut  abov,  and  rit  in  by  only  Lords  and 
Laddies,  I  am  redeuced  to  a  Peer  in  the  pagis  of  the  Comick  Anual 
< — Mr  H.  giving  leaves. 

Wile  we  waited  at  Sham  Money,  our  minds  sevral  tims  misgiv,  but 
considdring  only  twelve  Genteimen  and  never  a  footmun  had  bin  up, 
we  determind  to  make  ourselves  particler,  and  so  highered  gides  to 
sho  us  up.  For  a  long  tim  the  whether  was  dout  full  weather — first 
it  snew — then  thew — and  then  friz — and  that  was  most  agreeabil  for 
a  tempting.  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  change  my  blew  and  wite 
livry,  as  I  guest  we  shood  hav  enuf  of  blew  and  wite  on  the  mounting 
— but  put  on  a  dred  nort  for  fear  of  every  thing — takin  care  to  hav  my 
pockets  well  cramd  with  sand  witches,  and,  as  proved  arterwards,  they 
broke  my  falls  very  much  when  I  slipd  on  my  bred  and  ams.  The 
*  Comic  Annual,  1832.  ' 


442  AN  ASSENT  TO  THE  SUMMUT 

land  Lord  was  so  kind  as  lend  me  His  green  gaws  tap  room  blind 
for  my  eyes,  and  I  rccumend  no  boddy  to  go  up  anv  Snowhill  without 
green  vales — for  the  hice  dazls  like  winkin.  Sum  of  the  slides  wanted 
me  to  ware  a  sort  of  crimpt  skaits, — but  thoght  my  feet  would  be  the 
stifer  for  a  cramp  on — and  declind  binding  any  think  xcept  my  list 
garters  rouna  my  Shews.  I  did  all  this  by  advize  of  John  Mary 
Cuthay  the  Chief  Gide,  who  had  bin  8  tims  up  to  every  think.  Thus 
a  tired  we  sit  out,  on  our  feat,  like  Capting  Paris,  with  our  Nor  poles 
in  our  hands, — Master  in  verry  good  speirits,  and  has  for  me  I  was 
quit  ellivatted  to  think  what  a  figger  the  Summut  of  Mount  Blank 
wood  cut  down  the  airys  of  Portland  Plaice. 

Arter  sliping  and  slidding  for  ours,  we  cum  to  the  first  principle 
Glazier.  To  give  a  correct  noshun,  let  any  won  suppose  a  man  in 
fustions  with  a  fiaim  and  glass  and  puttey  and  a  dimond  pensel,  and 
it's  quit  the  revers  of  that.  It's  the  sam  wiih  the  Mare  of  Glass.  If 
you  dont  think  of  a  mare  or  any  think  maid  of  glass  you  have  it 
xactly.  We  was  three  ours  gitting  over  the  Glazier,  and  then  come 
to  the  Grand  Mullets,  ware  our  beds  was  bespoak — that  is,  nothing 
but  clean  sheats  of  sno, — and  never  a  warmin  pan.  To  protect  our 
heds  we  struck  our  poles  agm  the  rock,  with  a  cloath  over  them,  but 
it  looked  like  a  verry  litle  tent  to  so  much  mounting.  There  we  was, 
- — all  Sno  with  us  Sollitor\'  fijgers  atop.  Nothink  can  give  the  sub- 
lime idear  of  it  but  a  twelf  Cake. 

The  Gides  pinted  out  from  hear  the  Pick  de  Middy,  but  I  was  too 
cold  to  understand  Frentch — and  we  see  a  real  Shammy  leeping,  as 
Master  sed,  from  scrag  to  scrag,  and  from  pint  to  pint,  for  vittles 
and  drink — but  to  me  it  looked  like  jumpin  a  bout  to  warm  him  self. 
His  springs  in  the  middel  of  Winter  1  realy  beleave  as  uncredible. 
Nothink  else  was  muving  xcept  Havclaunches,  witch  is  stupendus 
Sno  bails  in  high  situations,  as  leaves  thdr  plaices  without  warnin, 
and  makes  a  deal  of  mischef  in  bowses  and  tamlies.  We  shot  of  our 
pistle,  but  has  it  maid  little  or  no  noise,  didnt  ear  the  remarkbly  fine 
ekko. 

We  dind  at  the  Grand  Mullets  on  cold  foul  and  a  shivver  c/  am, 
with  a  little  O  de  Colon,  agen  stomical  panes.  Wat  was  moor  cum- 
fortble  we  found  haf  a  bottel  of  brandey,  left  behind  by  sum  one  before, 
and  by  way  of  return  we  left  behind  a  littel  crewit  of  Chilly  Viniger 
for  the  next  cummer,  whoever  he  mite  be  or  not.  After  this  repass'd 
we  went  to  our  subblime  rests,  I  may  say,  in  the  Wurld's  garrits,  up 
150  pare  of  stares.  As  faHng  out  of  Bed  was  dangerus,  we  riz  a  wal 
of  stons  on  each  side.  Knowing  how  comfortble  Master  sleeps  at 
Home,  I  regretted  his  unaccommodation,  and  partickly  as  he  was  verry 
restless,  and  evry  tim  he  stird  kickd  me  about  the  Hed.  1  laidawack 
a  good  wile  thinking  how  litiel  Farther,  down  in  Summerset  Sheer, 
thoght  I  was  up  in  Mount  IMank  Sheer;  but  at  long  and  last  I  went 
of  like  a  top,  and  dremt  of  Summuts.  Won  may  sleep  on  wus  pillers 
than  Nap  Sacks. 

Next  mornin  we  riz  erly,  having  still  a  good  deal  to  git  up,  and 
skrambled  on  agin,  by  crivises  and  crax  as  maid  our  flesh  crawl  on 
hands  and  nees  to  look  at.  Master  wanted  to  desend  in  a  crack, 
but  as  he  miio  not  'jit  up  in  a  crack  agin,  his  letting  himself  down  was 


OF  MOUNT  BLANK. 


443 


anrecomended.  Arter  menny  ours  works,  we  cum  to  the  Grand 
Plato.  Master  called  it  a  vast  Amphi-Theater  ;  and  so  it  is,  except 
Du-Crow  and  the  Horses  and  evry  thing.  Hear  we  brekfisted,  but 
was  surprizd  as  our  stomicks  not  having  moor  hedges,  Master  only 
eting  a  Chickin  wing,  and  me  only  eting  all  the  rest.  We  had  littel 
need  to  not  eat, — the  most  uneasy  part  to  go  was  to  cum.  In  about 
too  ours  we  cum  to  a  Sno  wall,  up  rite  as  high  as  St  Paul's  ;  that 
maid  us  come  to  an  alt,  and  I  cood  not  help  saying  out,  Wat  is  only 
too  human  legs  to  200  feet  !  Howsumever,  after  a  bottel  of  Wine 
we  was  abel  to  proceed  in  a  zig  zag  direxion, — the  Gides  axing  the 
way,  and  cutting  steps  afore.  After  a  deal  of  moor  white  Slavery,  we 
sucsided  in  gitting  up  to  the  Mounting's  top,  and  no  body  can  hav  a 
distant  idea  of  it,  but  them  as  is  there.  Such  Sno  !  And  ice  enuf 
to  serve  all  the  Fish  Mungers,  and  the  grate  Routs  till  the  end  of  the 
Wurld  ! 

I  regrets  my  joy  at  cumming  to  the  top  maid  me  forget  all  I  ment 
to  do  at  it  ;  and  in  partickler  to  thro  a  tumble  over  hed  and  heals, 
as  was  my  mane  object  in  going  up.  Howsumever,  I  shall  allways 
be  abel  to  say  Me  and  Master  as  bin  to  the  Summut  of  Mount 
Blank,  and  so  has  a  little  butterfly.  I  ought  to  mension  the  curious- 
ness  of  seeing  one  there,  but  we  did  not  ketch  it,  as  it  was  too  far 
abov  us. 

We  dissented  down  in  much  shorter  time,  and  without  anny  axident 
xcept  Masters  sliding  telliscope,  witch  roled  of  the  ice.  Wen  we  cum 
agin  to  Sham  Money,  the  Land  Lord  askd  our  names  to  be  rit  in  the 
book,  as  was  dun,  by  Mr  W.  in  prose,  but  by  me  in  poetry — 


"  Mount  Blank  is  very  hard  to  be  cum  at, 
But  me  and  Master  as  bin  to  its  Summut." 


John  Jones. 


Figuiing  in  the  Album  of  Mont  Blanc. 


444 


Ko  Bankrupt  though  I  Breaks. 


A   HORSE   DEALER* 


IS  a  double  dealer,  for  he  dealeth  more  in  double  meanings  than 
your  punster.  When  he  giveth  his  word  it  signifieth  little,  how- 
beit  it  standeth  for  two  significations.  He  putteth  his  promises  like 
his  colts,  in  a  break.  Over  his  mouth  Truth,  like  the  turnpike-man, 
writeth  up  No  Trust.  Whenever  he  speaketh,  his  spoke  hath  more 
turns  than  the  fore-wheel.  He  tellcth  lies,  not  white  only,  or  black, 
but  likewise  grey,  bay,  chestnut,  brown,  cream,  and  roan,  piebald  and 
skewbald.  He  sweareth  as  many  oaths  out  of  court  as  any  man,  and 
more  in  ;  for  he  will  swear  two  ways  about  a  horse's  dam.  If,  by 
God's  grace,  he  be  something  honest,  it  is  only  a  dapple,  for  he  can  be 
fair  and  unfair  at  once.  He  hath  much  imagination,  for  he  selleth  a 
complete  set  of  capital  harness,  of  which  there  be  no  traces.  He 
advertiseth  a  coach,  warranted  on  its  first  wheels,  and  truly  the  hind 
pair  are  wanting  to  the  bargain.  A  carriage  that  hath  travelled 
twenty  summers  and  winters,  he  descriheth  well-seasoned.  He 
knocketh  down  machine-horses  that  have  been  knocked  up  on  the 
road,  but  is  so  tender  of  heart  to  his  animals,  that  he  parteth  with 
none  for  a  fault ;  "for,"  as  he  sayeth,  "blindness  or  lameness  be  mis- 
fortunes." A  nag,  proper  only  for  dog's  meat,  he  writeth  down,  but 
*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


A  HORSE  DEALER. 


445 


crieth  up,  "fit  to  go  to  any  hounds  ;"  or,  as  may  be,  "  would  suit  a 
timid  gentleman."  Strinu'-halt  he  calletVi  "grand  action,"  and  i^icking 
''lifting  the  feet  well  up."  If  a  mare  have  the  farcical  disease,  he 
n.imeth  her  "  out  of  Comedy,"  and  selleth  Blackbird  for  a  racer  because 
he  hath  a  running  thrush.  Horses  that  drink  only  water,  he  justly 
warranteth  to  be  "  temperate,"  and  if  dead  lame,  declareth  them  "good 
in  all  their  paces,"  seeing  that  they  can  go  but  one.  Roaring  he 
calleth  "  sound,"  and  a  steed  that  high  bloweth  in  running,  he  com- 
pareth  to  Eclipse,  for  he  outstrippeth  the  wind.  Another  might  be 
entered  at  a  steeplechase,  for  why — he  is  as  fast  as  a  church.  Thorough- 
pin  with  him  is  synonymous  with  ''perfect  leg."  If  a  nag  cougheth, 
tis  "  a  clever  hack."     If  his  knees  be  fractured,  he  is  "  well  brol'.e  for 


Rear  Admiral. 

gig  or  saddle."  If  he  reareth,  he  is  "above  sixteen  hands  high."  If 
he  hath  drawn  a  tierce  in  a  cart,  he  is  a  good  fencer.  If  he  biteth,  he 
shows  good  courage  ;  and  he  is  playful  merely,  though  he  should  play 
the  devil.  If  he  runneth  away,  he  calleth  him  "  off  the  Gretna  Road, 
and  has  been  used  to  carry  a  lady."  If  a  cob  stumbleth,  he  consider- 
eth  him  a  true  goer,  and  addeth  "  The  proprietor  parteth  from  him  to 
go  abroad."  Thus,  without  much  profession  of  religion,  yet  is  he  truly 
Christian-like  in  practice,  for  he  dealeth  not  in  detraction,  and  would 
not  disparage  the  character  even  of  a  brute.  Like  unto  Love,  he  is 
blind  unto  all  blemishes,  and  seeth  only  a  virtue,  meanwhile  hegazeth 
at  a  vice.     He  taketh  the  kick  of  a  nag's  hoof  like  a  love  token,  saying 


446 


THE  FALL. 


only,  before  standers-by,  "  Poor  fellow  !  he  knoweth  me  !  "—and  is 
content  rather  to  pass  as  a  bad  rider,  than  that  the  horse  should  be 
held  restive  or  over-mettlesome,  which  discharges  him  from  its  back. 
If  it  hath  bitten  him  beside,  and  moreover  bruised  his  limb  ngainst  a 
coach-wheel,  then,  constantly  returning  good  for  evil,  he  giveth  it  but 
the  better  character,  and  recommendeth  it  before  all  the  studs  in  his 
stable.  In  short,  the  worse  a  horse  may  be.  the  more  he  chanteth  his 
praise,  like  a  crow  that  croueth  over  Old  Ball,  whose  lot  it  is  on  a 
common  to  meet  with  the  Common  Lot. 


THE  FALL* 

"  Down,  down,  down,  ten  thousand  fathoms  deep." 

Count  Fathom. 

Who  does  not  know  that  dreadful  gulf,  where  Niagara  falls, 
Where  eagle  unto  eagle  screams,  to  vulture  vulture  calls  ; 
Where  down  beneath,  Despair  and  Death  in  liquid  darkness  grop^ 
And  upward,  on  the  foam  there  shines  a  rainbow  without  Hope ; 


The  Fall  of  St  Lawrence. 


While,  hung  with  clouds  of  Fear  and  Doubt,  the  unreturning  wave 
Suddenly  givcb  an  awful  plunge,  like  life  into  the  grave ; 
*  Comic  Annual,  1S33. 


THE  FALL. 


447 


And  many  a  hapless  mortal  there  hath  dived  to  bale  or  bliss ; 
One — only  one — hath  ever  lived  to  rise  from  that  abyss  ! 

0  Heaven  !  it  turns  me  now  to  ice,  with  chill  of  fear  extreme, 
To  think  of  my  frail  bark  adrift  on  that  tumultuous  stream  ! 
In  vain  with  desperate  sinews,  strung  by  love  of  life  and  light, 

1  urged  that  coffin,  my  canoe,  against  the  current's  mi^jht : 
On — on — still  on — direct  for  doom,  the  river  rush'd  in  force, 
And  fearfully  the  stream  of  Time  raced  with  it  in  its  course. 
My  eyes  I  closed — I  dared  not  look  the  way  towards  the  goal ; 
But  still  1  view'd  the  horrid  close,  and  dreamt  it  in  my  soul. 
Plainly,  as  through  transparent  lids,  I  saw  the  fleeting  shore, 
And  lofty  trees,  like  winged  things,  flit  by  for  evermore  ; 
Plainly — but  with  no  prophet  sense — I  heard  the  sullen  sound, 

The  torrent's  voice — and  felt  the  mist,  like  death-sweat  gathering  round. 

0  agony  !  O  life  !  My  home  !  and  those  that  made  it  sweet : 
Ere  I  could  pray,  the  torrent  lay  beneath  my  very  feet. 

With  frightful  whirl,  more  swift  than  thought,  I  pass'd  the  dizzy  edge. 
Bound  after  bound,  with  hideous  bruise,  I  dash'd  from  ledge  to  ledge, 
From  crag  to  crag, — in  speechless  pain, —  from  midnight  deep  to  deep  ; 

1  did  not  die,— but  anguish  stunn'd  my  senses  into  sleep. 
How  long  entrnnced,  or  whither  dived,  no  clue  I  have  to  find: 
At  last  the  gr.idual  light  of  life  came  dawning  o'er  my  mind  ; 

And  through  my  brain  there  thrill'd  a  cry, — a  cry  as  shrill  as  birds' 
Of  vulture  or  of  eagle  kind, — but  this  was  set  to  words  : — 
"  It's  Edgar  Huntley  in  his  cap  and  nightgown,  I  declares  ! 
He's  been  a  walking  in  his  sleep,  and  pitch'd  all  down  the  stairs  I  * 


A  Cataract 


4*8 

THE  ILL  UMINA  TI* 

*'  Light,  I  say,,  light  I  "•  'Othellow 

THOSE  who  fiave  peeped  into  the  portfolios  of  Mr  Geoffrey  Ci'ayce. 
will  easily  remember  his  graphic  sketches  of  a  locality  called 
Little  Britain,  and  his  amusing  portraits  of  its  two  leading  families, 
the  Lambs  and  the  Trotters.  I  imagine  the  deserved  popularity  of 
the  draughtsman  made  him  much  in  request  at  routs,  soirees,  and 
conversazioni,  or  so  acute  an  observer  would  not  have  failed  to  notice 
a  nocturnal  characteristic  of  the  same  neighbourhood, — I  mean  the 
frequent  and  alarming  glares  of  light  that  illuminate  its  firmament ;  but 
in  suite  of  which,  no  parish  engine  rumbles  down  the  steps  of  St  Bo- 
tolph,  the  fire-ladders  hang  undisturbed  in  their  chains,  and  the  turn- 
cock smokes  placidly  in  the  taproom  of  the  Rose  and  Crown.  For 
this  remarkable  apathy,  my  own  more  domestic  habits  enable  me  to 
account. 

It  is  the  fortune,  or  misfortune,  of  the  house  where  I  lodge,  to  con- 
front that  of  Mr  VVix,  "Wax  and  Tallow  Chandler  to  his  Majesty;" 
and  certainly  no  individual  ever  burned  so  much  to  evince  his  loyalty. 
He  and  his  windows  are  always  framing  an  excuse  for  an  illumination. 

The  kindling  aptitude  ascribed  to  Eupyrions,  and  Lucifers,  and 
Chlorate  Matches,  is  nothing  to  his.  Contrary  to  Hoyle's  rules  for  loo, 
a  single  court  card  is  sufficient  with  him  for  "a  blaze."  He  knows 
and  keeps  the  birthdays  of  all  royal  personages,  and  shows  by  tallow 
in  tins  how  they  wax  in  years.  As  sure  as  the  Park  guns  go  off  in 
the  morning,  he  fires  his  six-pounders  in  the  evening  ;  as  sure  as  a 
newsman's  horn  is  sounded  in  the  street,  it  blows  the  same  spark  into 
a  flame.  In  some  cases,  his  inflammability  was  such,  he  has  been 
known  to  ignite,  and  exhibit  fire,  where  he  should  have  shed  water. 
He  was  once — it  is  still  a  local  joke — within  an  ace  of  rejoicing  at 
Marr's  Murder. 

During  the  long  war  he  was  really  a  nuisance,  and  what  is  worse, 
rot  indictable.  For  one  not  unused  to  the  melting  mood,  he  was 
strangely  given  to  rejoicing.  Other  people  were  content  to  light  up 
for  the  great  victories,  but  he  commemorated  the  slightest  skirmishes. 
In  civil  events  the  same,  whether  favourable  to  Whig  or  Tory.  Like 
the  lover  of  Bessy  Bell  and  Mary  Gray,  he  divided  his  flame  between 
them.  He  lighted  when  the  Administration  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
came  in,  and  he  lighted  when  it  went  out, — in  short,  it  seemed,  as  with 
the  Roman  Catholics,  that  candle-burning  was  a  part  of  his  religion, 
and  that  he  had  got  his  religion  itself  from  an  illuminated  missal. 

To  aggravate  this  propensity,  Mr  Sperm,  the  great  oil  merchant, 
lives  nearly  opposite  to  Mr  Wix,  and  his  principle  and  his  interest 
coincide  exactly  with  those  of  his  neighbour.  Mr  Sperm  possesses  a 
very  large  star, — and,  like  certain  managers,  he  brings  it  forward  as 
often  as  he  can.  He  is  quite  as  lax  in  his  political  creed  as  the  chandler, 
and  will  light  up  on  the  lightest  occasions, — for  instance,  let  there  b« 
*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


THE  ILLUMINATI.  449 

but  a  peal  of  bells,  and  the  Genius  of  the  Ring  directly  invokes  the 
Genius  of  the  Lamp.  In  short,  Mr  Wix  and  Mr  Sperm  both  resemble 
the  same  thing— a  merchant-man  getting  rid  of  goods  by  means  of 
lighters. 

As  the  other  inhabitants  do  not  always  choose  to  follow  the  example 
of  these  two,  I  have  known  our  illuminations  to  be  very  select — the 
preat  oil  and  tallow  establishments  blazmg  all  alone  in  their  glory. 
On  other  occasions— for  instance,  the  rejoicings  for  that  Bill  which 
Lord  L.  calls  a  Bill  of  Panes  and  Penahies — I  have  seen  our  street 
assume  the  motley  appearance  of  a  chessboard,  alternately  dark  and 
bright — to  say  nothing  of  Mrs  Frampton's  lodging-house,  where  every 
tenant  was  of  a  different  sentiment — and  the  several  floors  afforded  a 
striking  example  of  the  Clare  Obscure. 

Among  general  illuminations,  I  remember  none  more  so  than  the 
one  on  the  accession  of  his  late  Majesty — but  what  so  universally 
brightened  the  Great  Britain  might  be  expected  to  light  the  Little 
one.  It  was  in  reality  an  unrivalled  exhibition  of  its  kind,  and  I  pro- 
pose therefore  to  give  some  account  of  it,  the  situation  of  my  apartment 
having  afforded  unusual  ojiportunities — for  it  is  at  the  angle  of  a 
corner  house,  and  thus  while  its  easterly  windows  stare  mto  those  of 
the  Rumbold  family,  its  northern  ones  squint  aside  into  the  sashes  of 
that  elderly  spinster  Miss  Winter. 

It  must  have  been  an  extreme  fit  of  loyalty  that  put  such  a  thought 
into  the  penurious  mind  of  Miss  W.,  but  she  resolved  for  once  in 
her  life  to  illuminate.  I  could  see  her  at  a  large  dining-table— so 
called  by  courtesy,  for  it  never  dined — reviewing  a  regiment  of  glass 
custard-cups — so  called  also  by  courtesy,  for  they  never  held  custard — 
and  another  division  of  tall  jelly-glasses,  equally  unknown  to  jellies. 
I  might  have  thought  that  she  meant  for  once  to  give  a  very  light 
supper,  had  1  not  seen  her  fill  them  all  with  oil  from  a  little  tin  can, 
and  afterwards  she  furnished  them  with  a  floating  wick.  They  were 
then  ranged  on  the  window-frame,  alternately  tall  and  short  ;  and 
after  this  costly  preparation,  which,  by  the  heaving  of  her  neckerchief, 
she  visibly  sighed  over,  she  folded  her  arms  demurely  before  her,  and, 
by  the  light  of  her  solitary  rush  taper,  sat  down  to  await  the  extrava- 
gant call  of  "  Light  up  !  " 

The  elder  Miss  Rumbold — the  parents  were  out  of  town — was  not 
idle  in  the  meantime.  She  packed  all  the  little  R.'s  off  to  bed — (I 
did  not  see  them  have  any  supper) — and  then,  having  got  rid  of  the 
family  .ranches,  began  on  the  tin  ones.  She  had  fixed  her  headquar- 
ters in  the  drawing-room,  from  whence  I  saw  Caroline  and  Henry 
detached,  with  separate  parcels  of  tins  and  candles,  to  do  the  same 
office  for  the  floors  above  and  below.  But  no  such  luck  !  After  a 
while,  the  street  door  gently  opened,  and  forth  sneaked  the  two 
deserters,  of  course  to  see  better  illuminations  than  their  own.  At 
the  slam  of  the  door  behind  them  Miss  Rumbold  comprehended  the 
full  calamity :  first,  she  threw  up  her  arms,  then  her  eyes,  then 
clenched  her  teeth  and  then  her  hands  ;  going  through  all  the  pan- 
tomine  for  distress  of  mind — but  she  had  no  time  for  grieving,  and 
indeed  but  little  for  rejoicing.  Mr  Wix's  was  beginning  to  glitter. 
Tearing  up  and  down  stairs  like  a  lamplighter  on  ^is  ladder,  she  fur- 

2  F 


450 


THE  ILLUMINATl. 


nished  all  the  blank  windows,  and  then  returned  to  the  drawing-room ; 
and  what  was  evidently  her  favourite  fancy,  she  had  completed  and 
hung  up  two  festoons  of  artificial  flowers  ;  but  alas  !  her  stock  on 
hand  fell  short  a  whole  foot  of  the  third  window — I  am  afraid  for 
want  of  the  very  bouquet  in  Caroline's  bonnet.  Removing  the  unfor- 
tunate garlands,  she  rushed  out  full  speed,  and  the  next  moment  I 
saw  her  in  the  story  above,  rapidly  unpapering  her  curls,  and  making 
herself  as  fit  as  time  allowed,  to  sit  in  state  in  the  drawing-room,  by 
the  light  of  twenty-seven  long  sixes. 

A  violent  uproar  now  recalled  my  attention  to  Number  29,  where 
the  mob  had  begun  to  call  out  to  Miss  Winter  for  her  Northern 
Lights.  Miss  W.  was  at  her  post  and  rushed  with  her  rush  to 
comply  with  the  demand  :  but  a  sudden  twitter  of  nervousness 
agi^ravating  her  old  palsy,  she  could  not  persuade  her  wavering 
ta|)er  to  aUght  on  any  one  of  the  cottons.  There  was  a  deal  of 
coquetting  indeed  between  wick  and  wiik,  but  nothing  like  a  mutual 
flame.     In  vain  the  thin   lover-like   candle    kept  hovering   over   its 


All  at  Sixes  and  Sevens. 


intended,  and  shedding  tears  of  grease  at  every  repulse  ;  not  a  glimmer 
replied  to  its  glance,  till  at  last,  weary  of  love  and  light,  it  fairly  leaped 
out  of  its  tin  socket,  and  drowned  its  own  twinkle  in  a  tall  jelly-glass. 
The  patience  of  the  mob,  already  of  a  thin  texture,  was  torn  to  rags 
by  this  conclusion  ;  they  saw  that  if  she  would,  Miss  Winter  never 
could  illuminate  :  but  as  this  was  an  unwelcome  truth,  they  broke  it 


THE  ILL  UMINA  TL  451 

to  her  with  a  volley  of  stones,  that  destroyed  her  little  Vauxhall  in  a 
moment,  and  in  a  twinkle  left  her  nothing  to  twinkle  with  ! 

Shocked  at  this  catastrophe,  I  turned  with  some  anxiety  to  Miss 
Rumbold's,  but  with  admirable  presence  of  mind  she  had  lighted 
every  alternate  candle  in  her  windows,  and  was  thus  able  to  present 
a  respectable  front  at  a  short  notice.  The  mob,  however,  made  as 
much  uproar  as  at  Miss  Winter's,  though  the  noise  was  different  in 
character,  and  more  resembled  the  boisterous  merriment  which  attends 
upon  Punch.  In  fact,  Miss  Rumbold  had  a  Fantoccini  overhead  she 
little  dreamt  of.  Awakened  by  the  unusual  light,  the  younger  Rum- 
bolds  had  rushed  from  bed  to  the  window,  where,  exhilarated  by 
childish  spirits  and  the  appearance  of  a  gala,  they  had  got  up  an 
extempore  Juvenile  B.iU,  and  were  dancing  with  all  their  might  in 
their  little  nightcaps  and  nightgowns.  In  vain  the  unconscious 
Matilda  pointed  to  her  candles,  and  added  her  own  private  pair  from 
the  table  to  the  centre  window ;  in  vain  she  wrung  her  hands,  or 
squeezed  them  on  her  bosom  :  the  more  she  protested  in  dumb  show, 
the  more  the  mob  shouted  ;  and  the  more  the  mob  shouted,  the  \\  ilder 
the  imps  jigged  about.  At  last  Matilda  seemed  to  take  some  hint  ; 
she  vanished  from  the  drawing-mom  like  a  ghost,  and  reappeared 
like  a  Fury  in  the  nursery — a  pair  of  large  hands  vigorously  flourished 
and  flogged — the  heels  of  the  Corps  de  Ballet  flew  up  higher  than 
their  heads — the  mob  shouted  louder  than  ever — and  exeunt  omnes. 

This  interlude  being  over,  the  rabble  moved  on  to  Mr  Wix's,  whose 
every  window,  as  usual,  shone  "like  nine  good  deeds  in  a  nau:4hty 
world,"  and  he  obtained  nine  cheers  for  the  disphiy.  Poor  Mr  Sperm 
was  not  so  fortunate.  He  had  been  struggling  manfully  with  a  sharp 
nor-wester  to  light  up  his  star,  but  one  obstinate  limb  persisted  in 
showing  which  way  the  wind  blew.  It  was  a  point  not  to  be  gained, 
and  though  far  from  red  hot,  it  caused  a  hiss  that  reached  even  to 
Number  14,  and  frightened  all  the  Flowerdews.  Number  14,  as  the 
Clown  expresses  it  in  Twelfth  Night,  was  "as  lustrous  as  ebony."  In 
vain  Mrs  Flowerdew  pleaded  from  one  window,  and  Mr  Flowerdew 
harangued  from  the  other,  while  Flowerdew  junior  hammered  and,, 
tugged  at  the  space  between  ;  the  glaziers  and  their  friends  unglazed 
everything  ;  and  1  hope  the  worthy  family,  the  next  time  they  have  a 
Crown  and  Anchor,  will  remember  to  have  them  the  right  side  upper- 
most. Green  and  yellow  lamps  decline  to  hang  upon  hooks  that  are 
topsyturvy,  and  the  blue  and  red  are  just  as  particular. 

1  forgot  to  say  that  during  the  past  proceedings  my  eyes  had  fre- 
quently glanced  towards  Number  28.  Its  occupier,  Mr  Brookbank, 
was  in  some  remote  way  connected  with  the  royal  household,  and  had 
openly  expressed  his  intention  of  surprising  Little  Britain.  And  in 
truth  Little  Britain  was  surprised  enough  when  it  beheld  at  Mr 
Brookbank's  nothing  but  a  few  sorry  flambeaux  :  he  talked  to  the 
mob,  indeed,  of  a  transparency  of  Peace  and  Plenty,  but  as  they  could 
see  no  sign  of  either,  and  they  had  plenty  of  stones,  they  again  broke 
the  peace.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that,  in  this  instance,  the  mob  were 
wrong,  for  there  was  a  transparency,  but  as  it  was  lighted  from  the 
outer  side,  Mr  B.'s  Peace  and  Plenty  smiled  on  nobody  but  him' 
Belf. 


45* 


THE  ILLUMINATI. 


There  was  only  one  more  disorder,  and  it  occurred  at  the  very  house 
that  I  help  to  inhabit.  Not  that  we  were  dim  by  anv  means,  for  we 
had  been  hberal  customers  to  Mr  Sperm  and  to  Mr  Wix  :  the  tallow 
of  one  flared  in  all  our  panes,  and  the  oil  of  the  other  fed  a  brilliant 
W.  P.  Alas!  it  was  these  fiery  initials,  enigmatical  as  those  at  Bel- 
shazzar's  banquet,  that  caused  all  our  troubles.  The  million  could 
make  out  the  meaning  of  the  W,  but  the  other  letter,  divided  in  con- 
jecture among  them,  was  literally  a  split  P.  Curiosity  increased  to 
furiosity,  and  what  might  have  happened  nobody  only  knows,  if  my 
landlady  had  not  proclaimed  that  her  W  had  spent  such  a  double 
allowance  of  lamps,  that  her  R  had  been  obliged  to  retrench. 

To  aid  her  oratory,  the  rabble  were  luckily  attracted  from  our  own 
display  by  a  splendour  greater  even  than  usual  at  Number  9.  The 
warehouseman  of  Mr  Wix — like  Master  like  Man—\i■^^  got  up  an 
illumination  of  his  own,  by  leaving  a  firebrand  among  the  tallow,  that 


Ignis  Fatuus. 

soon  caused  the  breaking  out  of  an  Insurrection  in  Grease,  and  where 
candles  had  hitherto  been  lighted  only  by  Retail,  thev  w.re  now  ignited 
by  Wholesale  ;  or,  as  my  landlady  said— "All  the  fat  was  in  the  fire  !" 
I  ventured  to  ask  her,  when  all  was  over,  what  she  thought  of  the 
lighting-up,  and  she  gave  me  her  opinion  in  the  following  sentirnent, 
in  the  prayer  of  which  I  most  heartily  concur.  "  Illuminations,"  she 
said,  "  were  very  pretty  things  to  look  at,  and  no  doubt  new  Kings 
ought  to  be  illuminated  ;  but  what  with  the  toil,  and  what  with  the 
oil,  and  what  with  the  grease,  and  what  with  the  mob,  she  hoped  it 
would  be  long,  very  long  before  we  had  a  new  Kmg  again  ! " 


453 


Four  Inside. 


CONVE  YANCING* 

Oh,  London  is  the  place  for  all 

In  love  with  loco-motion  ! 
Still  to  and  fro  the  people  go 

Like  billows  of  the  ocean  ; 
Machine  or  man,  or  caravan, 

Can  all  be  had  for  paying, 
When  great  estates,  or  heavy  weights, 

Or  bodies  want  conveying. 

There's  always  hacks  about  in  packs, 

Wherein  you  may  be  shaken, 
And  Jarvis  is  not  always  drunk, 

Though  always  overtaken; 
In  racing  tricks  he'll  never  mix, 

His  nags  are  in  their  last  days, 
And  slow  to  go,  although  they  show 

As  if  they  had  \.\i€\x  fast  days  I 

Then  if  you  like  a  single  horse, 

This  age  is  quite  a  cab-age, 
A  car  not  quite  so  small  and  li.ijht 

As  those  of  our  Queen  Mab  age  ; 
The  horses  have  been  broken  welly 

All  danger  is  rescinded. 
For  some  have  broken  both  their  knets^ 

And  some  are  broken-wmded. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


454  CONVEYANCING. 

If  you've  a  friend  at  Chelsea  end. 

The  stages  are  worth  knowing  ; 
There  is  a  sort,  we  call  'em  short, 

Although  the  longest  going — 
For  some  will  stop  at  Hatchett's  shop 

Till  you  grow  faint  and  sickv, 
Perched  up  behind,  at  last  to  find 

Your  dinner  is  all  dickey  I 

Long  stages  run  from  every  yard  ; 

But  if  you're  wise  and  frugal, 
You'll  never  go  with  any  Guard 

That  plays  upon  the  bugle, 
"Ye  banks  and  braes,"  and  other  lays. 

And  ditties  everlasting. 
Like  miners  going  all  your  way, 

With  boring  and  with  blasting. 

Instead  o{  journeys,  people  now 

May  go  upon  a  Giirney, 
With  steam  to  do  the  horses'  work, 

B  y  powers  of  attorney  ; 
Though  with  a  load  it  may  explode. 

And  you  may  all  be  7/«-done  ! 
And  find  you're  going  up  to  Heaven^ 

Instead  of  up  to  London  I 

To  speak  of  every  kind  of  coach, 

It  is  not  my  intention  : 
But  there  is  still  one  vehicle 

Deserves  a  little  mention  ; 
The  world  a  sage  has  call'd  a  stagey 

With  all  its  living  lumber. 
And  Malthus  swears  it  always  bears 

Above  the  proper  number. 

The  law  will  transfer  house  or  land 

For  ever  and  a  day  hence, 
For  lighter  things,  watch,  brooches,  ring% 

You'll  never  want  conveyance  ; 
Ho  .'stop  the  thief!  my  handkerchief  I 

It  is  no  sight  for  laughter — 
Away  it  goes,  and  leaves  my  doS6 

To  join  in  running  after  1 


455 


Van  Demon's  Land. 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  SETTLER  FOR  LIFE  LN 
VAN  DIEM  EN'S  LAND* 

To  Mary,  at  No.  45  Mount  Street  Grosvenor  Square. 

DEAR  MARY— Littel  did  I  Think  wen  I  adrertisd  in  the  Tims  for 
annother  Plaice  of  taking  wan  in  Vandemin's  land.  But  so  it 
his  and  hear  I  am  amung  Kangerooses  and  Savidges  and  other  Forri- 
ners.  But  goverment  offering  to  Yung  Wimmin  to  find  them  in 
Vittles  and  Drink  and  Close  and  Husbands  was  turms  nof  to  be 
sneazed  at,  so  I  writ  to  the  Outlandish  Seckertary  and  he  was  so  Kind 
as  Grant. 

Wen  this  cums  to  Hand  go  to  Number  22  Pimpernel  Plaice  And 
mind  and  go  betwixt  Six  and  sevin  For  your  own  Sake  cos  then  the 
fammilys  Having  Diner  give  my  kind  love  to  betty  Housmad  and  Say 
I  am  safe  of  my  Jurney  to  Forrin  parts  And  I  hope  Master  as  never 
Mist  the  wine  and  brought  Them  into  trubble  on  My  accounts.  But 
I  did  not  Like  to  leav  for  Ever  And  Ever  without  treeting  my  Frends 

*  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


456  A  LETTER  FROM  A  SETTLER, 

and  feller  servants  and  Drinking  to  all  their  fair  wells.     In  my  Flury 
ivea  the  Bell  rung  I  forgot  to  take  My  own  Key  oui  of  miosis  Tekaddy 
but  I  hope  sum  wan  had  the  thought  And  it  is  in   Good  hands  but 
shall  Be  obleeged  to   no.     Lickwise  thro  my  Loness  of  Sperrits  my 
lox  of  Hares  quite  went  out  of  My  Hed  as  w:is  prunimist  to  Be  giv 
to  Gorge  and  Willum  and  the  too  Futmen  at  the  too  Next  dores   But 
I^hop  and  Trust  betty  pacifid  them  with  lox  of  Her  hone  as  I  begd  to 
Be  dun  wen  I  rit  Her  from  dover.     O  Mary  wen  I  furst  see  the  dover 
Wite  clifts  out  of  site  wat  with  squemishness  and  Felings   I   all   most 
repentid  givin    Ingland   warning  And    had    douts    if   I  was   goin    to 
better  my  self.     But  the   stewerd   was  verry  kind   tho   I  could  make 
Him  no  returns  xcept   by  Dustin   the   ship'  for   Him   And  helpin   to 
wash  up  his  dishes.     Their  was  50  moor  Young  Wimmin  of  us  and 
By  way  of  D.issing  tim  We  agread   to  tell  our    Hibtris   of  our  selves 
taken  by  Turns   But   they  all  turned  out   Alick   we  had  All  left   on 
acount  of  Testacious  masters  And  crustacious  Missi^sis  and  becos  the 
Wurks  was  to  much  For  our  Strenths  but  betwixt  vew  and  Me  the 
reel  truths  was  beeing  Flirted  with  and  unprommist  by  Perfidus  yung 
men.     With  sich  exampils  befour  there  Minds  I  wunder  sum  of  thern 
was  unprudent  enuff  to  Lissen  to  the  Salers  whom  are  coverd  with 
Pitch  but  famus  for  Not  Siiking  to  there   Wurds.     has   for   Me  the 
Mate  chose  to  be  verry  Partickler  wan  nite   Setting   on  a   Skane   of 
Rops  but  I  giv  Him  is  Anser  and  lucky  I  did  for  Am  infourmd  he  as 
Got  too  more  Marred  Wives  in  a  state  of  Biggamv  thank  Goodness 
wan  can  marry  in  new  Wurlds  without  mates.     Since  I  have  bean   in 
My  pressent  Sitiation  I  have  had  between  too  and  three  offers  for  My 
Hands  and  expex  them  Evry  day  to  go  to  fistcufs  about  Me  this  is 
sum  thing  lick  treeting  Wimmin  as  Wimmin  ought  to  be  treetid  Nun 
ofyoursarsy  Buchers  and  J^ackers  as  brakes   iWe   Prommissis  the 
bam  as  Pi  Crust  wen  its  maid  Lite  and  slirivvry  And  then  laffs  in  Your 
face  and  say  they  can  have  anny  Gal  they  lick  round  the   Square.     I 
dont  menshun  nams  but  Eddard  as  drives  the  Fancy  bred  will  no  Wat 
1  mean.     As  soon  as  ever  the  Botes  rode  to  Land  I  don't  agrivate  the 
Truth  to  say  their  was  haf  a  duzzin  Bows   apeace  to   Hand  us   out   to 
shoar  and  sum  go  so   Far  as  say  they  was   offered   to  thro  Specking 
Truinpits  afore  they  left  the  Shipside.     Be  that  as    it   May  or  may 
INot  I  am  tould  We  maid  a  Verry  pritty  site  all  Wauking  too  and 
too  in  our  bridle  wite  Gownds   with   the    Union  Jacks   afoi-e   Us    to 
pay  humbel  Respex  to   kernel  Arther  who  behaived   verry    Gentle- 
m.mny  and  Complementid  us  on  our  Hansom  apearances  and   Pur- 
litely  sed  he  Wisht  us  All  in  the  United  States.     The  Salers  was  so 
gallaunt  as  giv  three  chears  wen  We  left  there  Ship  and  sed  if  so  be 
they  had   not  Bean  without  Canons  they  Wood   have   salutid  us  all 
round.     Servents  mite  live  Long  enuff  in  Lonnon  without  Being  sich 
persons  of  Distinkshun.    For  mv  hone  Part,  camming  amung  stran-ers 
•and  Pig  in  Pokes,  prudence  Dicktatid  not  to  be  askt  out  At  the  verry 
furst  cumming  in  howsumever  All  is  setteld  And  the  match  is  aproved 
off  by  Kernel  Arther  and  the  Brightish  goverment,  who  as  agread  to 
giv  me  away,  thems  wat  I   call   Honners  as  we  used  to  Say  at  wist. 
Wan  thing  in  My  favers  was  my  voice  and  my  noing  the  sung  of  the 
Plane  Gould  Ring  witch  the  Van   Demons  had  never  Herd  afore  I 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  SETTLER. 


457 


wood  recummend  all  as  meens  cumming  to  Bring  as  menny  of  the 
fashingable  Songs  and  Ballets  as  they  Can — and  to  get  sum  nolliges 
of  music  as  fortnately  for  me  I  was  Abel  to  by  meens  of  praxtising  on 
Missis  Piney  Forty  wen  the  fammily  Was  at  ramsgit.  of  Coarse  you 
and  betty  Will  xpect  Me  to  indulge  in  Pearsonallitis  about  my  intendid 
to  tell  Yew  wat  he  is  lick  he  is  Not  at  All  lick  Eddard  as  driv  the 
Fancy  bred  and  Noboddy  else  yew  No.  I  wood  send  yew  His  picter 
Dun  by  himself  only  its  no  more  lick  Him  then  Chork  is  to  Cheas. 
In  spit  of  the  Short  Tmi  for  Luv  to  take  Roots  I  am  convinst  he  is 
very  Passionet  of  coarse  As  to  his  temper  I  cant  Speek  As  yet  as  I 
hav  not  Tride  it.  O  mary  littel  did  I  think  too  Munth  ago  of  sending 
yew  Brid  Cake  and  Weddin  favers  wen  I  say  this  I  am  only  Figgering 
in  speach  for  Yew  must  Not  look  for  sich  Things  from  this  Part  of 
the  Wurld  I  dont  mean  this  by  Way  of  discurridj^ement  Wat  I  meen 
to  say  is  this  If  so  be  Yung  Wimmin  prefers  a  state  of  Silly  Bessy 
they  Had  better  remane  ware  they  was  Born  but  as  far  as  Reel  down 
rite  Coarting  and  no  nonsens  is  concarnd  This  is  the  Plaice  for  my 
Munny  a  Gal  has  only  to  cum  out  hear  And  theirs  duzzens  will  jump 
at  her  like  Cox  at  Gusberris  it  will  Be  a  reel  kindnes  to  say  as  Much 
to  Hannah  at  48  and  Hester  Brown  and  Peggy  Oldfield  and  partickler 
pQor  Charlotte  they  needent  Fear  about  being  Plane  for  Yew  may  tell 
Them  in  this  land  Faces  dont  make  stumbling  Blox  and  if  the  Hole 
cargo  was  as  uggly  As  sin  Lots  wood  git  marrid.  Deer  Mary  if  so  Be 
you  feel  disposd  to  cum  Out  of  Your  self  I  will  aford  evry  Falicity 
towards  your  hapiness.  I  dont  want  to  hurt  your  Felines  but  since 
the  Cotchman  as  giv  yew  up  I  dont  think  Yew  have  annother  String 
to  your  Bo  to  say  nothink  of  Not  being  so  young  As  yew  was  Ten 
Yeer  ago  and  faces  Will  ware  out  as  well  as  scrubbin  brushes,  theirs  a 
verry  nice  yung  man  is  quite  a  Willin  to  offer  to  Yew  providid  you 
cum  the  verry  Next  vessle  for  He  has  Maid  up  his  mind  not  to  Wait 


Ring-Doves. 


beyond  the  Kupid  and  Sikey,  as  the  ship  is  on  the  Pint  of  Saling  I 
cant  rite  Moor  at  pressent  xcept  for  them  as  has  shily  shalying  sweat 
harts  to  Thretten  with  cumming  to  Vandemins  And  witch  will  soon 
sho  wether  its  Cubbard  Love  or  true  Love  I  have  seen  Enuff  of  Bows 


458  EPICUREAN  REMINISCENCES  OF 

droping  in  at  supertime  and  falling  out  the  next  morning  after  borrowin 
Wans  wages.  Wen  yew  see  anny  Frends  giv  my  Distant  love  to 
Them  and  say  My  beinj,'  Gone  to  annuthcr  wurld  dont  impear  my 
Memmery  but  I  often  Thinks  of  Number  22  and  the  two  Next 
Dores.  yew  may  Disclose  my  matterymonial  Prospex  to  betty  as  we 
have  always  had  a  Deal  of  Confidens.  And  I  remane  with  the  Gratest 
asurance  Your  affexionat  Frend 

Susan  Gale — as  his  to  be  Simco. 

P.S.  Deer  mary  my  Furst  Match  beeing  broke  off  short  hope  Yew 
will  not  take  it  111  but  I  have  Marrid  the  yung  Man  as  was  to  Hav 
waited  for  Yew  but  as  Yew  hav  never  seen  one  Annother  trusts  yew 
will  Not  take  Him  to  hart  or  abrade  by  Return  of  Postesses  he  has 
behaved  Perfickly  honnerable  And  has  got  a  verry  United  frend  ot  his 
Hone  to  be  atacht  to  Yew  in  lew  of  Him.    adew. 


SONNET* 

Allegory — A  moral  vehicle. — Dictionary. 

I  HAD  a  gig-horse,  and  I  called  him  Pleasure, 

Because  on  Sundays,  for  a  little  jaunt, 
He  was  so  fast  and  showy,  quite  a  treasure  ; 

Although  he  sometimes  kick'd,  and  shied  aslant 
I  had  a  chaise,  and  christen'd  it  Enjoyment, 

With  yellow  body,  and  the  wheels  of  red, 
Because  'twas  only  used  for  one  employment, 

Namely,  to  go  wherever  Pleasure  led. 
I  had  a  wife,  her  nickname  was  Delight ; 

A  son  called  Frolic,  who  was  never  still : 
Alas  !  how  often  dark  succeeds  to  bright  ! 

Delight  was  thrown,  and  Frolic  had  a  spill, 
Enjoyment  was  upset  and  shatter'd  quite, 

And  Pleasure  fell  a  splitter  on  Paints  Hill  I 


EPICUREAN  REMINISCENCES    OF  A    SENTh 
MENTALIST.\ 

"  My  Tablet  I     Meat  it  is,  /  set  it  down  I  " — HamlkT. 

I  THINK  it  was  spring — but  not  certain  I  am — 

When  my  passion  began  first  to  work  ; 
But  I  know  we  were  certainly  looking  for  lamb, 

And  the  season  was  over  for  pork. 

*Twas  at  Christmas,  I  think,  when  I  met  with  Miss  Chase, 
Yes. — for  Morris  had  ask'd  me  to  dine, — 
*  Comic  Annual,  1830.  +  Coinic  Annual,  1S31. 


A  SENTIMENTALIST.  4Sg 

And  I  thought  I  had  never  beheld  such  a  face, 
Or  so  noble  a  turkey  and  chine. 

Placed  close  by  her  side,  it  made  others  quite  wild 

With  sheer  envy  to  witness  my  luck  ; 
How  she  blush'd  as  1  f;ave  her  some  turtle,  and  smiled 

As  1  afterwards  offer'd  some  duck. 

I  look'd  and  I  languish'd,  alas  !  to  my  cost, 

Through  three  courses  of  dishes  and  meats  ; 
Getting  deeper  in  love — but  my  heart  was  quite  lost 

When  it  came  to  the  trifle  and  sweets  ! 

With  a  rent-roll  that  told  of  my  houses  and  land. 

To  her  parents  I  told  my  designs — 
And  then  to  herself  I  presented  my  hand, 

With  a  very  fine  pottle  of  pines  ! 

I  asked  her  to  have  me  for  weal  or  for  woe, 

And  she  did  not  object  in  the  least  ; — 
I  can't  tell  the  date — but  we  married,  I  know, 

Just  in  time  to  have  game  at  the  feast. 

We  went  to ,  it  certainly  was  the  seaside  ; 

For  the  next,  the  most  blessed  of  morns, 
I  remember  how  fondly  I  s^azed  at  my  bride. 

Sitting  down  to  a  plateful  of  prawns. 

Oh,  never  may  memory  lose  sight  of  that  year, 

But  still  hallow  the  time  as  it  ought  ; 
That,  season  the  "  grass  "  was  remarkably  dear, 

And  the  peas  at  a  guinea  a  quart. 

So  happy,  like  hours,  all  our  days  seem'd  to  hast^ 

A  fond  pair,  such  as  poets  have  drawn, 
So  united  m  heart — so  congenial  in  taste, 

We  were  both  of  us  partial  to  brawn  ! 

A  long  life  I  look'd  for  of  bliss  with  my  bride, 

But  then  Death —  I  ne'er  dreamt  about  that  1 
Oh,  there's  nothins^  is  certain  in  life,  as  I  cried 

When  my  turbot  eloped  with  the  cat  ! 

My  dearest  took  ill  at  the  turn  of  the  year, 

But  the  cause  no  physician  could  n.ib  ; 
But  something  it  seem'd  like  consumption,  I  fear. 

It  was  just  after  supping  on  crab. 

In  vain  she  was  doctor'd.  in  vain  she  was  dosed. 

Still  her  strength  and  her  appetite  pined  ; 
She  lost  relish  for  wliat  she  had  relish'd  the  most, 
Even  salmon  she  deeply  declined  ! 


46o  SAINT  MARK'S  EVE. 

For  months  still  I  linger'd  in  hope  and  in  doubt, 
While  her  form  it  grew  wasted  and  thin  ; 

But  the  last  dying  spark  of  existence  went  out 
As  the  oysters  were  just  coming  in  ! 

She  died,  and  she  left  me,  the  saddest  of  men, 

To  mdulge  in  a  widower's  moan  ; 
Oh,  I  felt  all  the  power  of  solitude  then, 

As  I  ate  my  first  natives  alone  ! 

But  when  I  beheld  Virtue's  friends  in  their  cloaks, 
And  with  sorrowful  crape  on  their  hats, 

Oh,  my  grief  pour'd  a  flood  !  and  the  out-of-door  folks 
Were  all  crying — I  think  it  was  sprats  ! 


'The  City  Remembrancer." 


SAINT  MARK'S  EVE, 

A    TALE    OF    THE    OLDEN    TIME.* 

*"T^HE  Devil  choke  thee  with  un  !  " — as  Master  Giles  the  Yeoman 
JL       said  this,  he  banged  down  a  hand,  in  size  and  colour  like  a  ham, 
on  the  old-fashioned  oak  table  ; — "  I   do  say  the  Devil  choke  thee 
with  un  !" 

The  Dame  made  no  reply  : — she  was  choking  with  passion  and  a 
fowl's  liver — the  original  cause  of  the  dispute.  A  great  deal  has  been 
said  and  sung  of  the  advantage  of  congenial  tastes  amongst  married 
people,  but  true  it  is,  the  variances  of  our  Kentish  couple  arose  from 
this  very  coincidence  in  gusto.  They  were  both  fond  of  the  little 
delicacy  in  question,  but  the  Dame  had  managed  to  secure  the  morsel 
for  herself,  and  this  was  sufficient  to  cause  a  storm  of  very  high  words, 
— which,  properly  understood,  signifies  very  low  language.  Their 
meal-times  seldom  passed  over  without  some  contention  of  the  sort, — as 
Slue  as  the  knives  and  forks  clashed,  so  did  they — being,  in  fact,  equally 
*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


SAINT  MARK'S  EVE. 


461 


greedy  and  disagreedy — and  when  they  did  pick  a  quarrel,  they  picked 
it  to  the  bone. 

It  was  reported  that  on  some  occasions  they  had  not  even  contented 
themselves  with  hard  speeches,  but  that  they  had  come  to  scuffling — 
he  taking  to  boxing,  and  she  to  pinching — though  in   a   far  less  ami- 


Boxer  and  Piiicher. 


cable  manner  than  is  practised  by  the  takers  of  snuflf.    On  the  present 

difference,  however,  they  were  satisfied  with  "  wishmg  each  other  dead 
with  all  their  hearts" — and  there  seemed  little  doubt  of  the  sincerity 
of  the  aspiration,  on  looking  at  their  malignant  faces, — for  they  made 
a  horrible  picture  in  this  frame  of  mind. 

Now  it  happened  that  this  quarrel  took  place  on  the  morning  of  St 
Mark, — a  saint  who  was  supposed  on  that  Festival  to  favour  his 
votaries  with  a  peep  into  the  Book  of  Fate.  For  it  was  the  popular 
belief  in  those  days,  that  if  a  person  should  keep  watch  towards  mid- 
night, beside  the  church,  the  apparitions  of  all  those  of  the  parish  who 
were  to  be  taken  by  Death  before  the  next  anniversary  would  be  seen 
entering  the  porch.  The  Yeoman,  like  his  neighbours,  believed  most 
devoutly  in  this  superstition  ;  and  in  the  very  moment  that  he  breathed 
the  unseemly  aspiration  aforesaid,  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  Even 
was  at  hand  when,  by  observing  the  rite  of  St  Mark,  he  might  know 
to  a  certainty  whether  this  unchristian  wish  was  to  be  one  of  those 
that  bear  fruit.  Accordingly,  a  little  before  midnight  he  stole  quietly 
out  of  the  house,  and  m  something  of  a  sexton-iike  spirit  set  forth  on 
his  way  to  the  church. 

In  the  meantime  the  Dame  called  to  mind  the  same  ceremonial:  and 
having  the  Hke  motive  for  curiosity  with  her  husband,  she  also  put  on 
her  cloak  and  calash,  and  set  out,  though  by  a  different  path,  on  the 
same  errand. 

The  night  of  the  saint  was  as  dark  and  chill  as  the  mysteries  he 


462 


SAINT  MARK'S  EVE. 


was  supposed  to  reveal,  the  moon  throwing  but  a  short  occasional 
glance,  as  the  sluggish  masses  of  cloud  were  driven  slowly  across  her 
face.  Thus  it  fell  out  that  our  two  adventurers  were  quite  unconscious 
of  being  in  company,  till  a  sudden  ghmpse  of  moonlight  showed  them 


Second  Sight. 

to  each  other,  only  a  few  yards  apart — both,  through  a  natural  panic, 
as  pale  as  ghosts,  and  both  making  eagerly  towards  the  church  p^rch. 
Much  as  they  had  just  wished  for  this  vision,  they  could  not  iielp 
quaking  and  stopping  on  the  spot,  as  if  turned  to  a  pair  of  tombstones, 
and  in  this  position  the  dark  again  threw  a  sudden  curtain  over  them, 
and  they  disappeared  from  each  other. 

It  will  be  supposed  the  two  came  only  to  one  conclusion,  each  con- 
ceiving that  St  Mark  had  marked  the  other  to  himself.  With  this 
comfortable  knowledge,  the  widow  and  widower  elect  hied  home  again 
by  the  roads  they  came  ;  and  as  their  custom  was  to  sit  apart  after  a 
quarrel,  they  repaired,  each  ignorant  of  the  other's  excursion,  to  sepa- 
rate chambers. 

By  and  by,  being  called  to  supper,  instead  of  sulking  as  aforetime, 
they  came  down  together,  each  being  secretly  in  the  best  humour, 
though  mutually  suspected  of  the  worst  ;  and  amongst  other  things 
on  the  table,  there  was  a  calf's  sweetbread,  being  one  of  those  very 
dainties  that  had  often  set  them  together  by  the  ears.  The  Dame 
looked  and  longed,  but  she  refrained  from  its  appropriation,  thinking 
within  herself  that  she  could  give  up  sweetbreads /<?r  <?«^  >'^d:r.*  and^ 


SAINT  MARK'S  EVE.  463 

the  Farmer  made  a  similar  reflection.  After  piishin^r  the  dish  to  nnd 
fro  several  times,  by  a  common  impulse  they  divided  the  treat  ;  and 
then,  having  supped,  they  retired  amicnbly  to  rest,  whereas  until  then, 
they  had  never  gone  to  bed  w  ithout  falling  out.  The  truth  was,  each 
looked  upon  the  other  as  being  already  in  the  churchyard  mould,  or 
quite  "moulded  to  their  wish." 

On  the  morrow,  which  happened  to  be  the  Dame's  birthday,  tha 
Farmer  was  the  first  to  w;ike.  and  knowing  ivhat  he  knew,  and  having 
besides  but  just  roused  himself  out  of  a  dream  strictly  confirmatory  of 
the  late  vigil,  he  did  not  scruple  to  salute  his  wife,  and  wish  her  many 
happy  returns  of  the  day.  The  wife,  who  knew  as  much  as  he,  very 
readily  wished  him  the  same,  having  in  truth  but  just  rubbed  out  of 
her  eyes  the  pattern  of  a  widow's  bonnet,  that  had  been  submitted  to 
her  in  her  sleep.  She  took  care,  however,  to  give  the  fowl's  liver  at 
dinner  to  the  doomed  man,  considering  that,  when  he  was  dead  and 
gone,  she  could  have  them,  if  she  pleased,  seven  days  in  the  week  ; 
and  the  Farmer,  on  his  part,  took  care  to  help  her  to  many  tid-hits. 
Their  feeling  towards  each  other  was  that  of  an  impatient  host  with 
regard  to  an  unwelcome  guest,  showing  scarcely  a  bare  civility  while 
in  expectation  of  his  stay,  but  overloading  him  with  hospitality  when 
made  certain  of  his  dep  rture. 

In  this  manner  they  went  on  for  seme  six  months,  and  though  with- 
out any  addition  of  love  between  them,  and  as  much  selfishness  as 
ever,  yet  living  in  a  subservience  to  the  comforts  and  inclinations  of 
each  other,  sometimes  not  to  be  found  even  amongst  couples  of  sin- 
cerer  affections.  There  were  as  many  causes  for  quarrel  as  ever,  but 
every  day  it  became  less  worth  while  to  quarrel  ;  so  letting  bygones 
be  bygones,  they  were  indifferent  to  the  present,  and  thought  only  of 
the  future,  considering  each  other  (to  adopt  a  common  phrase)  "  as 
good  as  dead." 

Ten  months  wore  away,  and  the  Farmer's  birthday  arrived  in  its 
turn.  The  Dame,  who  had  passed  an  uncomfortable  night,  having 
dreamt,  in  truth,  that  she  did  not  much  like  herself  in  mourningj 
saluted  him  as  soon  as  the  d;.y  dawned,  and  with  a  sigh  wished  him 
many  years  to  come.  The  Farmer  repaid  her  in  kind,  the  s  gh 
included  ;  his  own  visions  having  been  of  the  painful  sort,  for  he  had 
dreamt  of  having  a  headache  from  wearing  a  black  hatband,  and  the 
malady  still  clung  to  him  when  awake.  The  whole  morning  was 
spent  in  silent  meditation  and  melancholy  on  both  sides,  and  when 
dinner  came,  although  the  most  favourite  dishes  were  upon  the  table, 
they  could  not  eat.  The  Farmer,  resting  his  elbows  upon  the  board, 
with  his  face  between  his  hands,  gazed  wistfully  on  his  wife, — S(  oop- 
ing  her  eyes,  as  it  were,  out  of  their  sockets,  stripping  the  flesh  off  her 
cheeks,  and  in  fancy  converting  her  whole  head  into  a  mere  Caput 
Mortuum.  The  Dame,  leaning  back  in  her  high  arm-chair,  regarded 
the  Yeoman  quite  as  ruefully, — by  the  same  process  of  imagination 
picking  his  sturdy  bones,  and  bleaching  his  ruddy  visage  to  the  com- 
plexion of  a  plaster  cast.  Their  minds,  travelling  in  the  same  direc* 
tion,  and  at  an  equal  rate,  arrived  together  at  the  same  reflection  ;  but 
the  Farmer  was  the  first  to  give  it  utterance  : 

"  Theed  be  miss'd,  Dame,  if  thee  were  to  die  1* 


4^4  SAINT  MARK'S  EVE. 

The  Dame  started.  Although  she  had  nothing  but  Death  at  that 
moment  before  her  eyes,  she  was  far  from  dreaming  of  her  own  exit, 
and  at  this  rebound  of  her  thoughts  against  herself,  she  felt  as  if  an 
extra-cold  coffin-plate  had  been  suddenly  nailed  on  her  chest ;  recover- 
ing, however,  from  the  first  shock,  her  thoughts  flowed  into  their  old 
channel,  and  she  retorted  in  the  same  spirit  : — "  I  wish,  Master,  thee 
may  live  so  long  as  I !  " 

The  Farmer,  in  his  own  mind,  wished  to  live  rather  longer  ;  for,  at 
the  utmost,  he  considered  that  his  wife's  bill  of  mortality  had  but  two 
months  to  run.  The  calculation  made  him  sorrowful  :  durmg  the  last 
few  months  she  had  consulted  his  appetite,  bent  to  his  humour,  and 
dovetailed  her  own  inclinations  into  his,  in  a  manner  that  could  never 
be  supplied  ;  and  he  thou.tjht  of  her,  if  not  in  the  language,  at  least  in 
the  spirit,  of  the  Lady  in  Lalla  Rookh — 

*'  I  never  taught  a  bright  gazelle 

To  watch  me  with  its  dark  black  eye^ 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 
And  lo^  me,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! " 

His  wife,  from  being  at  first  useful  to  him,  had  become  agreeable, 
and  at  last  dear  ;  and  as  he  contemplated  her  approaciiing  fate,  he 
could  not  help  thinking  out  audibly,  "  that  he  should  be  a  lonesome 
man  when  she  was  gone."  The  Dame,  this  time,  heard  the  survivor- 
ship foreboded  without  starting  ;  but  she  marvelled  much  at  what  she 
thought  the  infatuation  of  a  doomed  man.  So  perfect  was  her  faith 
in  the  infallibility  of  St  Mark,  that  she  had  even  seen  the  symptoms 
of  mortal  disease,  as  palpable  as  plague  spots,  on  the  devoted  Yeoman. 
Giving  his  body  up,  therefore,  for  lost,  a  strong  sense  of  duty  persuaded 
her  that  it  was  imperative  on  her,  as  a  Christian,  to  warn  the  unsus- 
pecting Farmer  of  his  dissolution.  Accordingly,  with  a  solemnity 
adapted  to  the  subject,  a  tenderness  of  recent  growth,  and  a  Momento 
Mori  face,  she  broached  the  matter  in  the  following  question — 

*'  Master,  how  bee'st  ?" 

"As  hearty.  Dame,  as  a  buck," — the  Dame  shook  her  head, — "and 
I  wish  thee  the  like,"  at  which  he  shook  his  head  himself. 

A  dead  silence  ensued  : — the  Farmer  was  as  unprepared  as  ever. — 
There  is  a  great  fancy  for  breaking  the  truth  by  dropping  it  gently, — 
an  experiment  which  has  never  answered  any  more  than  with  iron- 
stone china.  The  Dame  felt  this,  and  thinking  it  better  to  throw  the 
news  at  her  husband  at  once,  she  told  him  in  as  many  words  that  he 
was  a  dead  man. 

It  was  now  the  Yeoman's  turn  to  be  staggered.  By  a  parallel 
course  of  reasoning,  he  had  just  wrought  himself  up  to  a  similar  dis- 
closure, and  the  Dame's  death-warrant  was  just  ready  upon  his  tongue, 
when  he  met  with  his  own  despatch,  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered. 
Conscience  instantly  pointed  out  the  oracle  from  which  she  had 
derived  the  omen,  and  he  turned  as  pale  as  "  the  pale  of  society  " 
— the  colourless  complexion  of  late  hours. 

St  Martin  had  numbered  his  years  ;  and  remainder  days  seemed 
discounted  by  St  Thomas.  Like  a  criminal  cast  to  die,  he  doubted  if 
the  die  was  caat,  and  appealed  to  his  wife  : — 


I'M  NOT  A  SINGLE  MAN. 


46S 


"Thee  hast  watch'd,  Dame,  at  the  church  porch,  then  ?" 

"Ay,  Master." 

"  And  thee  didst  see  me  spirituously  ?" 

"  In  the  brown  wrap,  with  the  boot-hose.  Thee  were  coming  to 
the  church  by  Fairthorn  Gap  ;  in  the  while  I  were  coming  by  the 
holly  hedge." — For  a  minute  the  Farmer  paused — but  the  ne.xt,  he 
burst  into  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  laughter,  peal  after  peal,  and  each 
higher  than  the  last,  according  to  the  hysterical  gamut  of  the  hyaena. 
The  poor  woman  had  but  one  explanation  for  this  phenomenon — she 
thought  it  a  delirium — a  lightening  before  death,  and  was  beginning 
to  wring  her  hands,  and  lament,  when  she  was  checked  by  the  merry 
Yeoman  : — 

"  Dame,  thee  bee'st  a  fool.  It  was  I  myself  thee  seed  at  the  church 
porch.  1  seed  thee  too. — with  a  notice  to  quit  upon  thy  face, — but, 
thanks  to  God,  thee  beest  a-living,  and  that  is  more  than  I  cared  to 
say  of  thee  this  day  ten-month  1 " 


Bear  and  For- Bear. 

The  Dame  made  no  answen  Her  heart  was  too  full  to  speak,  but 
throwing  her  arms  round  her  husband,  she  showed  that  she  shared  in 
his  sentiment.  And  from  that  hour,  by  practismg  a  careful  abstmence 
from  offence,  or  a  temperate  sufferance  of  its  appearance,  they  became 
the  most  united  couple  in  the  county — but  it  must  be  said,  that  their 
-omfort  was  not  complete  till  they  had  seen  each  other  m  safety  ovel 
the  perdous  anniversary  of  St  Marks  Eve. 


I'M  NOT  A    SINGLE    MAN* 

"  Double,  single,  and  the  rub." — HoVLE. 
"  This,  this  is  Solitude." — BvRON. 


Well,  I  confess,  I  did  not  guess 

A  smiple  marriage  vow 
Would  make  me  find  all  womenkind 

Such  unkind  women  now  ! 
*  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


2  G 


I'M  NOT  A  SINGLE  MA  IT. 

They  need  not,  sure,  as  distant  be 

As  Java  or  Japan, — 
Yet  every  Miss  reminds  me  this— 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

II. 

Once  they  made  choice  of  my  bass  voice 

To  share  in  each  duet  ; 
So  well  I  danced,  I  somehow  chanced 

To  stand  in  every  set  : 
They  now  declare  I  cannot  sing, 

And  dance  on  Bruin's  plan  ; 
Me  draw — me  paint — me  anything  1— 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

III. 
Once  I  was  ask'd  advice,  and  task'd 

What  works  to  buy  or  not, 
And  "  would  I  read  that  passage  out 

I  so  admired  in  Scott  .f"' 
They  then  could  bear  to  hear  one  read  ; 

But  if  I  now  began, 
How  they  would  snub  "  My  pretty  page* 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

IV. 
One  used  to  stitch  a  collar  then. 

Another  hemm'd  a  frill ; 
I  had  more  purses  netted  then 

Than  I  could  hope  to  fill, 
I  once  could  get  a  button  on. 

But  now  I  never  can — 
My  buttons  then  were  Bacheloi's— 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

V. 

Oh,  how  they  hated  politics 

Thrust  on  me  by  papa  ! 
But  now  my  chat,  they  all  leave  that 

To  entertain  mamma — 
Mamma,  who  praises  her  own  self, 

Instead  of  Jane  or  Ann, 
And  lays  "  her  girls  "  upon  the  shelf— 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

VI. 
Ah  me  !  how  strange  it  is  the  change^ 

In  parlour  and  in  hall  ; 
They  treat  me  so,  if  I  but  go 

To  make  a  morning  call. 
If  they  had  hair  in  papers  onc^ 

Bolt  up  the  stairs  they  ran ; 


/  *M  NOT  A  SINGLE  MAN,  4«1 

They  now  sit  still  in  deshabille— 
I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

VII. 

Miss  Mary  Bond  was  once  so  fond 

Of  Romans  and  of  Greeks, 
She  daily  sought  my  cabinet 

To  study  my  antiques  ; 
Well,  now  she  doesn't  care  a  dump 

For  ancient  pot  or  pan, 
Her  taste  at  once  is  modernised— 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

VIII. 
My  spouse  is  fond  of  homely  life, 

And  all  that  sort  of  thing  ; 
I  go  to  balls  without  my  wife, 

And  never  wear  a  ring  : 
And  yet  earh  Miss  to  whom  I  comei, 

As  strange  as  Genghis  Khan, 
Knows  by  some  sign,  I  can't  divine, 

I'm  not  a  single  man  1 

IX. 

Go  where  I  will,  1  but  intrude  ; 

I'm  left  in  crowded  rooms. 
Like  Zimmerman  on  Solitude, 

Or  Hervey  at  his  Tombs. 
From  head  to  heel,  they  make  me  fed 

Of  quite  another  clan  ; 
Compell'd  to  own,  tliough  left  alone, 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

X. 

Miss  Towne,  the  toast,  though  she  can  boast 

A  nose  of  Roman  line, 
Will  turn  up  even  that  in  scorn 

Of  compliments  of  mine  : 
She  should  have  seen  that  I  have  been 

Her  sex's  partisan. 
And  really  married  all  I  could^ 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

XI. 

*Tis  hard  to  see  how  others  fare, 

Whilst  I  rejected  stand  ; 
Will  no  one  take  my  arm  because 

They  cannot  have  my  hand .? 
Miss  Parry,  that  for  some  would  go 

A  trip  to  Hindostan, 
Witli  me  don't  care  to  mount  a  stair— 

I'm  not  a  sin  trie  man  ! 


46» 


/  'M  NOT  A  SINGLE  MAN. 

xn. 

Some  change,  of  course,  should  be  in  force, 

But  surely  not  so  much  , 
There  may  be  h.mds  I  may  not  squeeze. 

But  must  1  never  touch  ? 
Must  I  forbear  to  hand  a  chair 

And  not  pick  up  a  fan  ? 
But  I  have  been  mvself  pick'd  up— 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

XIII. 

Others  may  hint  a  lady's  tint 

Is  purest  red  and  white — 
May  say  her  eyes  are  like  the  skies, 

So  very  blue  and  bright ; 
I  must  not  say  that  she  has  eyeSf 

Or,  if  I  so  began, 
I  have  my  fears  about  my  ears — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 

XIV. 

I  must  confess  I  did  not  guess 

A  simple  marriage  vow 
Would  make  me  find  all  woman-kind 

Such  unkind  women  now  ; 
I  might  be  hash'd  to  death,  or  smash'd 

By  Mr  Pickford's  van. 
Without,  I  fear,  a  single  tear — 

I'm  not  a  single  man  ! 


A  Bachelor  of  Hearts. 


469 


A  GREENWICH  PENSIONER* 

IS  a  sort  of  stranded  mnrine  animal,  that  the  receding  tide  of  life  has 
left  hit,'h  and  dry  on  the  shore.  He  pines  for  his  clement  like  a 
sea-bear,  and  misses  his  briny  washings  and  wettings.  What  the  ocean 
could  not  do,  the  land  does,  for  it  makes  him  sick:  he  cannot  digest 
properly  unless  the  body  is  rolled  and  tumbled  about  like  a  barrel- 
churn.  Terra-firma  is  good  enough  he  thinks  to  touch  at  for  wood  and 
water,  but  nothing  more.  There  is  no  wmd.  he  swears,  ashore — every 
day  of  his  life  is  a  dead  calm. — a  thing  above  all  others  he  detests  : 
he  would  like  it  better  for  an  occasional  earthquake.  Walk  he 
cannot,  the  ground  being  so  still  and  steady  thai  he  is  puzzled  to  keep 
his  legs  ;  and  ride  he  will  not.  for  he  disdams  a  craft  whose  rudder  is 
forward  and  not  astern. 

Inland  scenery  is  his  especial  aversion.  He  despises  a  tree  "before 
the  mast,"  and  would  give  all  the  singing  birds  of  creation  for  a 
boatswain's  whistle.  He  hates  prospects,  but  enjoys  retrospects.  An 
old  boat,  a  stray  anchor,  or  decayed  mooring-ring,  will  set  him  dream- 
ing for  hours.  He  splices  sea  and  land  ideas  together.  He  reads  of 
"  shooting  off  a  tie  at  Baitersea,"  and  it  reminds  him  of  a  ball  carrying 
away  his  own  pigtail.  "  Canvassing  for  a  situation,"  recalls  running 
with  all  sails  set  for  a  station  at  Aboukir.  He  has  the  advantage  of 
our  Economists  as  to  the  "  Standard  of  Value,"  knowing  it  to  be  the 
British  ensign.  The  announcement  of  "an  arrival  of  foreign  vessels, 
with  our  ports  open,"  claps  him  into  a  paradise  of  prize  money,  with 
Poll  of  the  Fint.  He  wonders  sometimes  at  "petitions  to  be  dis- 
charged from  the  Fleet,"  but  sympathises  with  those  in  the  Marshalsea 
Court,  as  subject  to  a  sea  court-martial.  Finally,  try  him  even  in 
the  learned  languages,  by  asking  him  for  the  meaning  of  "  Georgius 
Rex,"  and  he  will  answer,  without  hesitation,  "  The  wrecks  of  the 
Royal  George." 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


470 


K#AK^^ 


.rfl!!i,, 


Enjoying  the  "  Tails  of  My  Landlord." 


THE  BURNING  OF  THE  LOVE-LETTER* 

'Sometimes  they  were  put  to  the  proof,  by  what  was  called  the  Fiery  Ordeal."— ^«/.  Eng. 

No  mornin-g  ever  seem'd  so  long! — 
I  tried  to  read  with  all  my  might  ! 
In  my  left  hand  "  My  Landlord's  Tales," 
And  threepence  ready  in  my  right. 

*Twas  twelve  at  last — my  heart  beat  high  ! — 

The  postman  rattled  at  the  door  ! — 

And  just  upon  her  road  to  church. 

I  dropt  the  "  Bride  of  Lammermoor  !" 

I  seized  the  note — I  Alw  upstnirs — 
Flung-to  the  door,  and  lock'd  me  in  ; 
With  panting  hast«  I  tore  the  seal, 
And  kiss'd  the  B  m  Benjamin  ! 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


THE  ANGLER'S  FAREWELL. 

Twas  full  of  love — to  rhyme  "ith  dove — 
And  all  that  tender  sort  of  thing — 
Of  sweet  and  meet  —and  heart  and  dart — 
But  not  a  word  about  a  ring  ! 

In  doubt  I  cast  it  in  the  flame, 
And  stood  to  watch  the  latest  spark— 
And  saw  the  love  all  end  in  smoke, 
Without  a  Parson  and  a  Clerk ! 


47* 


THE    ANGLER'S   FAREWELLS 

"  Resign 'd,  I  kissed  the  rod." 

Well  !  I  think  it  is  time  to  put  up ! 
For  it  does  not  accord  with  my  notions. 

Wrist,  elbow,  and  chine, 

Stiff  from  throwing  the  line, 
To  take  nothing  at  last  by  my  motions  1 


Gentie  and  Simple. 

I  ground-bait  my  way  as  I  go, 
And  dip  in  at  each  watery  dimple  j 

But  however  I  wish 

To  inveigle  the  fish, 
To  vay  gentle  they  will  not  play  simple t 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830 


199  THE  ANGLER'S  FAREWELL. 

Though  my  float  goes  so  swimmingly  on, 
My  bad  luck  never  seems  to  diminish; 

It  would  seem  that  the  Bream 

Must  be  scarce  in  the  stream, 
And  the  Chub,  though  it's  chubby,  be  thinnisht 

Not  a  Trout  there  can  be  in  the  place, 
Not  a  Grayling  or  Rud  worth  the  mention  ; 

And  although  at  my  hook 

With  attention  I  look, 
I  can  ne'er  see  my  hook  with  a  Tench  on  t 

At  a  brandling  once  Gudgeon  would  gape, 
But  they  seem  upon  different  terms  now  j 

Have  they  taken  advice 

Of  the  "  Council  of  Nice ^' 
And  rejected  their  "  Diet  of  Worms^'*  now  ? 

In  vain  my  live  minnow  I  spin. 

Not  a  Pike  seems  to  think  it  worth  snatching; 

For  the  gut  I  have  brought, 

I  had  better  have  bought 
A  good  rope  that  was  used  to  Jack-ketchingl 

Not  a  nibble  has  ruffled  my  cork, 

It  is  vain  in  this  river  to  search  then  ; 

I  may  wait  till  it's  night, 

Without  any  bite, 
And  at  roost-time  have  never  a  Perch  then  I 

No  Roach  can  I  meet  with — no  Bleak, 
Save  what  in  the  air  is  so  sharp  now  ; 

Not  a  Dace  have  I  got, 

And  I  fear  it  is  not 
*  Carpe  diem,"  a  day  for  the  Carp  now  I 

Oh,  there  is  not  a  one-pound  prize 
To  be  got  in  this  fresh-water  lottery  1 

What  then  can  I  deem 

Of  so  fishless  a  stream. 
But  that  'tis— like  St  MdLxy's—Oitetyl 

For  an  Eel  I  have  learn'd  how  to  try. 
By  a  method  of  Walton's  own  showing,.-* 

But  a  fisherman  feels 

Little  prospect  of  Eels 
In  a  path  that's  devoted  to  towing  1 

I  have  tried  all  the  water  for  miles, 
Till  I'm  weary  of  dipping  and  casting, 

And  hungry  and  taint, — 

Let  the  Fancy  just  paint 
What  it  is,  without  Fish,  to  be  Fasting! 


SEA  SONG. 

And  the  rain  drizzles  down  very  fast, 

While  my  dinner-tinie  sounds  from  a  far  bell,- 

So,  wet  to  the  skin, 

I'll  e'en  back  to  my  inn, 
Where  at  least  I  am  sure  of  a  Bar-bell/ 


473 


SEA    SONG. 


AFTER  DIBDIN. 

Pure  water  it  plays  a  good  part  in 

The  swabbing  the  decks  and  ail  that— 

And  it  finds  its  own  level  fur  sartin — 

For  it  sartinly  drinks  very  flat. 

For  my  part,  a  drop  of  the  creatur 

I  never  could  think  was  a  fault, 

For  if  Tars  should  swig  water  by  natur. 

The  sea  would  have  never  been  salt  ! 

Then  off  with  it  mto  a  jorum. 

And  make  it  strong,  sharpish,  or  sweet. 

For  if  I've  any  sense  of  decorum 

It  never  was  meant  to  be  neat ! 

One  day  when  I  was  but  half  sober- 
Half  measures  I  always  disdain — 


A  Bottle  Jack. 

I  walk'd  into  a  shop  that  sold  soda, 
And  ax'd  for  some  water-champagne. 
Well,  the  lubber  he  drew  and  he  drew,  boys, 
Till  I'd  shipi)'d  my  six  bottles  or  more, 
And  blow  off  my  last  limb  but  it's  true,  boys, 
Why,  I  warn't  half  so  drunk  as  afore  ! 
*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


474  ^  SINGULAR  EXHIBITION 

Then  off  with  it  into  a  jorum, 
And  make  it  strong,  sharpish,  or  sweet, 
For  if  I've  any  sense  of  decorum, 
It  never  was  meant  to  be  neat. 


A  SINGULAR  EXHIBITION  AT  SOMERSET 
HOUSE* 

"Our  Crummie  is  a  dainty  cow." — Scotch  Song-= 

On  that  first  Saturday  in  May, 

When  Lords  and  Ladies,  ^reat  and  grand. 

Repair  to  see  what  each  R.A. 

Has  done  since  last  they  sought  the  Strand^ 

In  red,  brown,  yellow,  green,  or  blue, 

In  short,  what's  call'd  the  private  view, — 

Amongst  the  guests — the  deuce  knows  how 

She  got  in  there  without  a  row — 


Moving  in  the  First  Circles. 

There  came  a  large  and  vulgar  dame, 
With  arms  deep  red,  and  face  the  same, 
Showing  in  temper  not  a  saint  ; 
No  one  could  guess  for  why  she  came, 
Unless  perchance  to  "  scour  the  paint." 

From  wall  to  wall  she  forced  her  way, 
Elbow'd  Lord  Durham — poked  Lord  Grey— 
Stamp'd  Stafford's  toes  to  make  him  move, 
And  Devonshire's  Duke  received  a  shove  ; 
The  great  Lord  Chancellor  felt  her  nudge, 
She  mnde  the  Vice,  his  Honour,  budge, 
And  gave  a  pinch  to  Park  the  Judge. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


AT  SOMERSET  HOUSE.  475 

As  for  the  ladies,  in  this  stir, 
The  highest  rank  gave  way  to  her. 

From  Number  one  and  Number  two, 

She  search'd  the  pictures  through  and  through, 

On  benches  stood  to  inspect  the  high  ones, 

And  squatted  down  to  scan  the  shy  ones  ; 

And  as  she  went  from  part  to  part, 

A  deeper  red  each  cheek  became, 

Her  very  eyes  lit  up  in  flame, 

That  made  each  looker-on  exclaim, 

*'  Reai'y  an  ardent  love  of  art  !  " 

Alas  !   amidst  her  inquisition, 

Fate  brought  her  to  a  sad  condition  ; 

She  might  have  run  against  Lord  Milton, 

And  still  have  stared  at  deeds  in  oil, 

But  ah  !  her  picture -joy  to  spoil, 

She  came  full  butt  on  Mr  Hilton. 

The  keeper,  mute,  with  staring  eyes, 

Lil<e  a  lay-figure  for  surprise, 

At  last  thus  stammer'd  out,  "  How  now  I 

Woman — where,  woman,  is  your  ticket, 

That  ought  to  let  you  through  our  wicket?" 

Says  woman,  "  Where  is  David's  Cow?" 

Said  Mr  H.,  with  expedition, 

**  Ttiere's  no  Cow  in  the  Exhibition." 

**No  Cow  !" — but  here  her  tongue  in  verity 

Set  ofif  with  steam  and  rail  celerity  : — 

*  No  Cow  !  there  an't  no  Cow  !  then  the  more's  the  shame  and  pity, 

Hang  you  and  the  R.A.'s,  and  all  the  Hanging  Committee  ! 

No  Cow — but  hold  your  tongue,  for  you  needn't  talk  to  me — 

You  can't  talk  i.p  the  Cow,  you  can't,  to  whtre  it  ought  to  be  ; 

1  haven't  seen  a  picture,  high  or  low,  or  anyhow, 

Or  in  any  ol  the  rooms,  to  be  compared  with  David's  Cow. 

You  mav  ta  .c  of  your  Landseers,  and  of  yopT  Coopers,  and  youl 

Wards, 
Why,  handling  is  too  good  for  them,  and  yet  here  they  are  on  cords  ! 
They're  only  fit  for  window  frames,  and  shutters,  and  street-doors- 
David  will  !)aint  'em  any  day  at  Red  Lions  or  Blue  Boars  ; 
Why,  Morland  was  a  fool  to  him  at  a  little  pig  or  sow. 
It's  really  hard  it  an't  hung  up — I  could  cry  about  the  Cow  ! 
But  I  know  well  what  it  i-,  and  why — they're  jealous  of  David's  fame^ 
But  to  vent  it  on  the  Cow,  poor  thmg,  is  a  cruelty  and  a  shame. 
Do  you  think  it  might  hang  bye  and  bye,  if  you  cannot  hang  it  now? 
David  has  made  a  party  up  to  come  and  see  his  Cow. 
If  it  only  hung  three  days  a  week,  for  an  example  to  the  learners, 
Why  can't  it  hang  up,  turn  about,  with  that  picture  of  Mr  Turner's? 
Or  do  you  think  from  Mr  Etty  you  need  apprehend  a  row, 
If  now  and  then  you  cut  him  down  to  hang  up  David's  Cow? 


476 


SINGULAR  EXHIBITION  AT  SOMERSET  HOUSE. 


I  can't  think  where  their  tastes  have  been,  to  not  have  such  a  creature, 

Although  i  say,  that  should  not  say,  it  w.is  prettier  than  Nature; 

It  must  be  hung— and  shall  be  hung,  for,  Air  H.,  I  vow, 

I  daren't  take  home  the  catalo.Ljue,  unless  it's  got  the  Cow  ! 

As  we  only  want  it  to  be  seen,  I  should  not  so  much  care. 

If  it  was  only  round  the  stone  man's  neck,  a-coming  up  the  stair  ; 

Or  down  there  in  the  marble  room,  whtre  all  the  figures  stand, 

Where  one  of  them  Three  Graces  might  just  hold  it  in  her  hand  ; 

Or  may  be  Bailey's  Charity  the  favour  would  allow 

It  would  really  be  a  charity  to  hang  up  David's  Cow. 

We  haven't  nowhere  else  to  go  if  you  don't  hang  it  here, 

The  Water-Colour  place  allows  no  oilman  to  appear, 

And  the  British  Cilery  sticks  to  Dutch,  Teniers,  and  Gerrard  Douw, 

And  the  Suffolk  Gallery  will  not  do — it's  not  a  Suffolk  Cow. 

I  wish  you'd  seen  him  painting  her,  he  hardly  took  his  meals 

Till  she  was  painted  on  the  board  correct  from  head  to  heels  ; 

His  heart  and  soul  was  in  his  Cow,  and  almost  made  him  shabby. 

He  hardly  whipp'd  the  boys  at  all,  or  h(  Ip'd  to  nuise  the  babby. 

And  when  he  had  her  all  complete  and  painted  over  red, 

He  got  so  grand,  I  really  thought  him  going  off  his  head. 

Now  hang  it,  Mr  Hilton,  do  just  hang  it  anyhow 

Poor  David,  he  will  hang  himself  unless  you  hang  his  Cow  ; 

And  if  it's  unconvenient,  and  drawn  too  big  by  half, 

David  sha'nt  send  next  year  except  a  very  little  calt." 


Beef  k-la-Daube. 


477 


THE  YEOMANRY* 

AMONGST  the  agitations  of  the  day,  there  is  none  more  iinacrour!t« 
l\.  able  to  a  peacealjle  man  in  a  time  of  peace  than  the  resistance 
to  the  disbandin^r  of  the  Yeomanry.  It  is  of  course  impossible  for  any 
one  so  unconnected  with  party  as  myself  to  divine  the  ministerial 
motives  for  the  measure ;  but  judging  from  my  own  experience, 
1  should  have  expected  that  every  private  at  least  would  have 
mounted  his  best  hunter  to  make  a  jump  at  the  offer.  It 
appears,  however,  that  a  part  of  the  military  body  in  question 
betrays  a  strong  disinclination  to  dismiss  ;  and  certain  troops 
have  even  offered  their 
services  gratuitously, 
and  been  accepted,  al- 
though it  is  evident  that 
such  a  troop,  to  be  con- 
sistent, ought  to  refuse, 
when  called  upon  to  act, 
to  make  any  charge 
whatever. 

Amongst  my  Scottish 
reminiscences,  I  have  a 
vivid  recollection  of 
once  encountering,  on 
the  road  from  Dundee 
to  Perth,  a  pirty  of 
soldiers,  having  in  their 
custody  a  poor  fellow  in 
the  garb  of  a  peasant, 
and  secured  by  hand- 
cuffs. He  looked  some- 
what melancholy,  as  he 
well  might,  under  the 
uncertainty  whether  he 
was  to  be  flogged  within 
an  inch  of  his  life,  or 
shot  to  death,  for  such 
were  the  ounishments  of 

his  offence,  which  I  understood  to  be  desertion,  or  disbanding  himself 
without  leave.  It  was  natural  to  conclude,  that  no  ordinary  disgust  at 
a  military  life  would  induce  a  man  to  incur  such  heavy  penalties. 
■U  ith  what  gratitude  would  he  have  accepted  his  discharge  !  He  would 
surely  have  embraced  the  offer  of  being  let  off  with  no  outlay  o( 
gunpowder!  And  yet  he  was  a  regular,  in  the  receipt  of  pay,  and 
with  the  prospect  and  opportunity,  so  rare  to  our  Yeomanry,  of  winning 
laurels,  and  covering  himself  with  glory  ! 

It  has  been  argued,  on  high  authority,  as  a  reason  for  retaining  the 
troops  in  question,  that   they  are   the   most   coiistitiitioiial  force   that 
could  be  selected  ;  and  truly  of  their  general  robustness  there  can  be 
*  Comic  Annual,  1S33. 


A  Field  Officer, 


478 


THE  YEOMANRY. 


but  one  opinion.  However,  if  a  domestic  force  of  the  kind  ought  to 
be  kept  up,  would  it  not  be  advisable,  and  hutp.ane,  and  fair,  to  give 
the  manufacturing  body  a  turn,  and  form  troops  of  the  sedentary 
weavers  and  other  artisans,  who  stand  so  much  more  in  need  of  out- 
of-door  exercise  ?  The  farmer,  from  the  niiture  of  his  business,  has 
field-ddiys  enough,  to  sav  nothing  of  the  ciiarges  and  throwings-off 
he  enjoys  in  hunting  and  coursing,  besides  riding  periodically  to  and 

from  market,  or  the 
neighbouring  fairs.  In- 
deed, the  true  English 
yeoman  is  generally, 
thanks  to  these  sports 
and  employments,  so 
constantly  in  the  sad- 
dle, that  instead  of  vo- 
lunteering into  any 
cavalry,  it  might  be 
supposed  he  would  be 
glad  to  feel  his  own 
legs  a  little,  and  enjoy 
the  household  comforts 
of  the  chimney-corner 
and  the  elbow-chair. 
As  regards  their  effec- 
tiveness, I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing 
a  troop  fire  at  a  target 
lor  a  subscription  silver 
cup  ;  and  it  convinced 
me,  that  if  I  had  felt 
inclined  to  roast  them, 
their  own  Jire  was  the 
"  I  vish  ve  could  be  disbandy'd."  very   btst  One   ior  my 

purpose.  On  another  occasion  I  had  the  gratification  of  beholding 
a  charge,  and  as  they  succeeded  in  dispersing  themselves,  it  may  be 
inferred  that  they  might  possibly  do  as  much  by  a  mob.  Still  there 
seemed  hardly  excitement  enough,  or  amusement  enough,  except  to 
the  spectators,  in  such  playing  at  soldiers,  to  induce  honest,  heariv, 
fox-hunting  farmers  to  wish  to  become  veterans.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  have  heard  before  now  repentant  grumblings  from  pr.  ctical  agri- 
culturists, who  had  too  r.ishly  adopted  the  uniform,  and  have  seen  even 
their  horses  betray  an  inclination  to  back  out  of  the  line,  'i'he  more 
therefore  is  my  surprise,  on  all  accounts,  to  hear  that  the  Yeomanry 
are  so  unwilling  to  be  dispensed  with,  and  relieved  from  inactive 
service;  for  though  the  song  tells  us  of  a  "Soldier  tired  of  war's 
alarms,"  there  is  no  doubt  that  to  a  soldier  of  spirit,  the  most  tire- 
some thing  in  the  world  is  to  have  no  alarms  at  all. 

In  the  meantime,  I  have  been  at  some  pains  to  ascertain  the  senti- 
ments of  the  yeowomanry  on  the  subject,  and  if  they  afl  feel  in  com- 
mon with  Danie ,  the  disbanding  will  be  a  most  popular  measure 

amongst  the  farmers'  wives.     I  had  no  sooner  communicated  the  news, 


AN  UNFAVOURABLE  REVIEW.  479 

through  the  old  lady's  trumpet,  than  she  exclaimed,  that  "  it  was  the 
best  hearing  she  had  had  for  many  a  long  day  !  The  sogering  work 
unsettled  both  men  and  horses— it  took  her  husb.nd's  head  off  his 
business,  and  it  threw  herself  off  the  old  mare,  at  the  last  fair,  along 
of  a  showman's  trumpet.  Besides,  it  set  all  the  frm  servants  a-soger- 
ing  too,  and  when  they  went  to  the  Wake,  only  old  Roger  came  back 
again  to  say  they  had  all  'listed.  They  had  more  sense,  however,  than 
their  master,  for  they  all  wanted  to  be  disbanded  the  next  morning. 
As  for  the  master,  he'd  never  been  the  same  man  since  he  put  on  the 
uniform  ;  but  had  got  a  hectoring,  swaggering  way  with  him,  as  if 
everybody  that  didn  t  agree  in  politics,  and  especially  about  the  Corn 
Bill,  was  to  be  bored  and  slashed  with  sword  and  pistol.  Then  there 
was  the  constant  dread  that  in  his  practising,  cut  six  would  either  come 
home  to  him,  or  do  a  mischief  to  his  neighbours  ;  and  after  a  review^ 
ing  there  was  no  bearing  him,  it  put  him  so  up  in  his  stirrups,  and 
on  coming  home,  he'd  think  nothing  of  slivering  off  all  the  hollyoaks 
as  he  brandished  and  flourished  up  the  front  garden.  Another  thing, 
and  that  was  no  trifle,  was  the  accidents  ;  she  couldn't  tell  how  it  was, 
whether  he  thought  too  much  of  himself,  and  too  little  of  his  horse, 
but  he  always  got  a  tumble  with  the  yeomanry,  though  he'd  fox-hunt 
by  the  year  together  without  a  fall.  What  was  worse,  a  fall  always 
made  him  crusty,  and  when  he  was  crusty,  he  made  a  point  to  get 
into  his  cups,  which  made  him  more  crusty  still.  Thank  God,  as  yet 
he  had  never  been  of  any  use  to  his  country,  and  it  was  her  daily 
prijyer  that  he  might  never  be  called  out,  as  he  had  so  many  enemies 
and  old  f!jrudges  in  the  neighbourhood,  there  would  be  sure  to  be  mur- 
der on  one  side  or  the  other.  For  my  own  part,"  she  concluded,  "  I 
think  the  Parliament  is  quite  right  in  these  hard  times  to  turn  the 
farmers'  swords  again  into  ploughshares,  for  they  have  less  to  care 
about  the  rising  of  rioters  than  the  falling  of  wheat."  The  old  lady 
then  hunted  out  what  she  called  a  yeomanry  letter  from  her  husband's 
brother,  and  having  her  permission  to  make  it  public,  I  have  thought 
proper  to  christen  it 


AN  UNFA  VO  URABLE  RE  VIE  W. 

"You  remember  Philiphaugh,  Sir?" 

"UmphI  "  said  the  Major,  "the  less  we  say  about  that,  John,  the  better." 

Old  Mortalitt. 

To  Mr  Robert  Cherry,  the  Orchard,  Kent. 

Dear  Bob, — It's  no  use  your  making  more  stir  about  the  barley. 
Business  has  no  business  to  stand  before  king  and  country,  and  I 
couldn't  go  to  Ashford  Market  and  the  Review  at  the  same  time. 
The  Earl  called  out  the  Yeomanry  for  a  grand  field-day  at  Bumper 
Daggle  Bottom  Common,  and  to  say  nothing  of  its  being  my  horse 
duty  to  attend,  I  wouldn't  have  lost  my  siglit  for  the  whole  barley  in 
Kent.  Besides  the  Earl,  the  great  Duke  did  us  the  honour  to  come 
and  see  the  troops  go  through  everything,  and  it  rained  all  the  time. 


48o 


AN  UNFAVOURABLE  REVIEW. 


Except  for  the  crops,  a  more  unfavouring  day  couldn't  have  bee» 
picked  out  for  man  or  beast,  and  many  a  nag  has  got  a  consequential 
cou;4h. 

The  ground  was  very  good,  with  only  one  leap,  that  nobody  took, 
but  the  weather  was  terribly  against     It  blew  equinoxious  gales,  and 

rained  like  watering-pots 
with  the  rose  off.  But 
as  somebody  said,  one 
cannot  always  have  their 
reviews  cut  and  dry. 

We  set  out  from  Ash- 
ford  at  ten,  and  was  two 
hours  going  to  Bumper 
Daggle  Bottom  Com- 
mon, but  it's  full  six 
mile.  The  Bumper 
Daggle's  dress  is  rather 
handsome  and  fighting 
like  —  blue,  having  a 
turn-up  with  wlvite,  and 
we  might  have  been 
called  cap-a-pee,  but  Mr 
P.,  the  contractor  of  our 
caps,  made  them  all  too 
small  for  our  heads. 
Luckily  the  clothes  fit, 
except  M  r  Lambert's,  who 
couldn't  find  a  jacket  big 
enough  ;  but  he  scorned 
to  slirink,  and  wore  it 
loose  on  his  shoulder, 
like  a  hussar.  As  for  arms,  we  had  all  sorts,  and  as  regards  horses, 
I  am  sorry  to  say  all  sorts  of  leL;s — what  with  splints,  and  quitters, 
and  ring-bone,  and  grease.  The  Major's,  I  noticed,  had  a  bad  spavin, 
and  was  no  better  for  being  fired  with  a  ramrod,  which  old  Clmker 
the  blacksmith  forgot  to  take  out  of  his  piece. 

We  mustard  very  strong — about  sixty — besides  two  volunteers,  one 
an  invalid,  because  he  had  been  ordered  to  ride  for  exercise,  and  the 
other  because  he  iiad  nothing  else  to  do,  and  he  did  nothing  when 
he  came.  We  must  have  been  a  disa:4reeable  site  to  eyes  as  is 
unaffected  towards  Government, — thout;h  how  Hopper's  horse  would 
behave  in  putting  down  riots  I  can't  guess,  for  he  did  nothing  but 
make  revolutions  himself,  as  if  he  was  still  in  the  thrashing-mill.  But 
you  know  yomanry  an't  reglers,  and  can't  be  expected  to  be  veterans 
all  at  once.  The  worst  of  our  mistakes  was  about  the  cullers.  Old 
Ensign  Cobb,  of  the  White  Horse,  has  a  Political  Union  club  meets 
at  his  house,  and  when  he  came  to  unfurl,  he  had  brought  the  wrong 
flag  ;  instead  of  "  Royal  Ihimper  Daggle,"  it  was  "  No  Boromongers." 
It  made  a  reglar  horse  laugh  among  the  cavalry  ;  and  old  Cobb  took 
such  dud[^eon  at  us,  he  deserted  home  to  the  White  Horse,  and  cut 
the  concern  without  drawing  a  sword.     The   Captain  ordered  Jack 


'  Pour  on,  I  will  endurOc 


AN  UNFAVOURABLE  REVIEW. 


481 


Blower  to  sound  the  recal  to  him,  but  sum  wag  on  the  rout  had  stuck 
a  bung  up  his  trumpet  ;  and  he  galloped  off  just  as  crusty  about  it 
as  Old  Cobb.  Our  next  trouble  was  with  Simkin,  but  you  know  he  is 
anything  but  Simkin  and  Martial.  He  rid  one  of  his  own  docked 
waggon-horses — but  for  appearance  sake  had  tied  on  a  long  regulation 
false  tale,  that  made  his  horse  kick  astonishing,  till  his  four  loose  shoes 
flew  oft'  like  a  sfcrae  at 


koits.  Of  course  no- 
body liked  to  stand 
nigh  him,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  be  drawn  up 
in  single  order  by  him- 
self, but  not  having  any 
one  to  talk  to,  he  soon 
got  weary  of  it,  and  left 
the  ground.  This  '>»':»=. 
some  excuse  for  hiv^ — 
but  not  for  Dale,  tha- 
deserted  from  his  com- 
pany,—  some  said  his 
horse  bolted  with  him, 
but  I'll  swear  I  seed  him 
spur.  Up  to  this  we  had 
only  one  more  deserter, 
and  that  was  Marks,  on 
his  iron-grey  mare  ;  for 
she  heard  her  foal 
whinnymg  at  home,  and 
attended  to  that  call 
more  than  to  a  deaf  and 
dumb  trumpet.  Biggs 
didn't  come  at  all  ;  he 
had  his  nag  stole  that 
verv  morning,  as  it  was  waiting  for  him,  pistols  and  all. 

What  with  these  goings  off  and  gaps,  our  ranks  got  in  such  disorder, 
that  the  Earl,  tho'  he  is  a  Tory,  was  obliged  to  act  as  a  rank  Reformer. 
We  got  into  line  middling  well,  as  far  as  the  different  sizes  of  our 
horses  would  admit,  and  the  Duke  rode  up  and  down  us,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  say  was  compelled  to  a  reprimand.  Morgan  Giles  had  been 
at  a  fox-hunt  the  day  before,  and  persisted  in  wearing  the  brush  as  a 
feather  in  his  cap.  As  fox-tails  isn't  regulation,  his  Grace  ordertd  it 
out,  but  Morgan  was  very  high,  and  at  last  threw  up  his  commission 
into  a  tree,  and  trotted  home  to  Wickham  Hal'  -ulong  with  Private 
Dick,  who,  as  Morgan's  ^\iipper-in,  thought  he  .  *s  under  obligations 
to  follow  his  ma=t~r 

We  got  thic'  swof,'  '  xercise  decent  v  <1, — ..  rtly  Barber  shaved 
Crofts'  mare  witt.  o'^.  sac-T,  which  he  needn't  have  done,  as  she  was 
dipt  before  :  and  Hoidsworth  slashed  off  his  cob's  off  ear.  It  was  cut 
and  run  with  her  in  course  ;  and  I  hope  he  got  safe  home.  We  don't 
know  what  Hawksley  might  have  thrusted,  as  his  sword  objected  to 
be  called  out  in  wet  weather,  and  stuck  to  its  sheath  like  pitch  ;  but 

2  H 


Seeing  a  Review. 


48a  AN  UNFA  VOURABLE  REVIEW, 

he  went  thro'  all  the  cuts  very  correct  with  his  umbrella.  For  my 
own  part,  candour  compels  to  state  I  swished  off  my  left-hand  man's 
feather ;  but  tho'  it  might  have  been  worse,  and  I  apologized  as 
well  as  I  could  for  my  horse  fretting,  he  was  foolish  enough  to  huff  at, 
and  swear  was  done  on  purpose,  and  so  galloped  home,  I  suspect,  to 
write  me  a  calling-out  challenge.  Challenge  or  not,  if  I  fight  him 
with  anything  but  fists,  I'm  not  one  of  the  Yeomanry.  An  accident's 
an  accident,  and  much  more  pardonable  than  Hawksley  opening  his 
umbrella  plump  in  the  face  of  the  Captain's  blood  charger  ;  and  ten 
times  more  mortifying  for  an  officer  to  be  carried  back  willy-nilly  to 
Ashford  in  the  very  middle  of  the  Review.  Luckily  before  Hawksley 
frightened  any  more  he  was  called  off  to  hold  his  umbrella  over 
Mrs  H.,  as  Mrs  Morgan  had  taken  in  nine  ladies,  and  couldn't 
accommodate  more  in  her  close  carriage,  without  making  it  too 
close. 

After  sword  exercise  we  shot  pistols,  and  I  must  say,  very  well  and 
distinct ;  only,  old  Dunn  didn't  fire  ;  but  he's  deaf  as  a  post,  and  I 
wonder  how  he  was  called  out.  Talking  of  volleys,  I  am  sorry  to  say 
we  fired  one  before  without  word  of  command  ;  but  it  was  all  thro' 
Day  on  his  shooting  pony  putting  up  a  partridge,  and  in  the  heat  of 
the  moment  letting  fly,  and  as  he  is  our  fugelman,  we  all  did  the  same. 
Lucky  for  the  bird  it  was  very  strong  on  the  wing,  or  the  troop  must 
have  brought  it  down  ;  howsomever  the  Earl  looked  very  grave,  and 
said  something  that  Day  didn't  choose  to  take  from  him,  being  a 
qualified  man,  and  taking  out  a  reglar  liqense,  so  he  went  off  to  his 
own  ground,  where  he  might  shoot  without  being  called  to  account. 
Contrary  to  reason  and  expectation,  there  was  very  few  horses  shied 
at  the  firing ;  but  we  saw  Bluff  lying  full  length,  and  was  afraid  it  was 
a  bust ;  but  we  found  his  horse,  being  a  very  quiet  one,  had  run 
away  from  the  noise.  He  was  throwd  on  his  back  in  the  mud,  but 
refused  to  leave  the  ground.  Being  a  man  of  spirit,  and  military 
inclind,  he  got  up  behind  Bates  ;  but  Bates's  horse  objecting  to  such 
back-gammon,  rear'd  and  threw  doublets.  As  his  knees  was  broke, 
Bates  and  Bluff  was  forced  to  lead  him  away,  and  the  troop  lost  two 
more  men,  tho'  for  once  against  their  own  wills. 

As  for  Roper,  he  had  bragged  how  he  could  stand  fire,  but  seeing  a 
great  light  over  the  village,  he  set  off  full  swing  to  look  after  his  ricks 
and  barns. 

The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  charging,  and  between  you  and  me, 
I  was  most  anxious  about  that,  as  many  of  us  could  only  ride  up  to  a 
certain ///^A  As  you've  often  been  throwd,  you'll  know  what  I  mean. 
To  tell  the  truth,  when  the  word  came,  I  seed  some  lay  hold  of  their 
saddles,  but  Barnes  had  better  have  laid  hold  of  anything  else  in  the 
world,  for  it  turn'd  round  with  him  at  the  first  start.  Simpkin  fell  at 
the  same  time  insensibly,  but  the  doctor  dismounted  and  was  very 
happy  to  attend  him  without  making  any  charge  whatever.  All  the 
rest  went  off  gallantly,  either  galloping  or  cantering,  tho'  as  they  say 
at  Canterbury  races,  there  was  some  wonderful  tailing  on  account  of 
the  difference  of  the  nags.  Grimsby's  mare  was  the  last  of  the  lot,  and 
for  her  backwardness  in  charging  we  ralKd  her  the  Mare  of  liristol, 
but  he  took  the  jest  no  better  than  Cobb  did,  and  when  we  wheel'd  to 


AN  UNFAVOURABLE  REVIEW. 


483 


the  right,  he  was  left.  Between  friends,  I  was  not  sorry  when  the 
word  came  to  pull  up, — such  crossing,  and  jostling,  and  foul  riding  ; 
but  two  farmers  seemed  to  like  it,  for  they  never  halted  when  the  rest 
did,  but  galloped  on  out  of  sight.  I  'have  since  heard  they  had 
matched  their  two  nags  the  day  before  to  run  two  miles  for  a 
sovereign.  I  don't  think 
a  sovereign  should  di- 
vert a  man  from  his 
king  :  but  I  can't  write 
the  result,  as  they  never 
came  back, — I  suppose 
on  account  of  the  wet. 
The  rains,  to  speak 
cavalry  hke,  had  ^ot 
beyond  bearing-reins  ; 
and  when  we  formed 
line  again,  it  was  like  a 
laundress's  clothes  line, 
for  there  wasn't  a  dry 
shirt  on  it.  One  man 
on  a  lame  horse  rode 
particularly  restive,  and 
objected  in  such  critical 
weather  to  a  long  re- 
view. He  wouldn't  be 
cholora  morbus'd,  he 
said,  for  Duke  or  Devil, 
but  should  put  his  horse  || 
up  and  go  home  by  the 
blue  stage ;  by  way  of 
answer  he  was  ordered 
to  give  up  his  arms  and 
his  jacket,  which  he  did 
very  offhand  as  it  was 
wet  thro'.  Howsomever  it  was  thought  prudent  to  dispense  with  us 
till  fine  weather,  so  we  was  formed  into  a  circle — 9  bobble  square,  and 
the  Duke  thanked  us  in  a  short  speech  for  being  so  regular,  and  loyal, 
and  soldier-like,  after  which  every  man  that  had  kept  his  seat  gave 
three  cheers. 

On  the  whole  the  thing  might  have  been  very  gratifying,  but  on 
reviewing  the  field-day,  the  asthmas  and  agues  are  uncommonly 
numerous,  and  to  say  nothing  of  the  horses  th;it  are  amiss  with  coffs 
and  colds — there  are  three  dead  and  seven  lame  for  life.  The  Earl 
has  been  very  much  blamed  under  the  rose  among  the  privates  for 
fixing  upon  a  hunting-day,  which  I  forgot  to  say  carried  away  a  dozen 
that  were  mounted  on  their  hunters.  I  am  sorry  to  sav  there  was  so 
few  left  at  the  end  of  all,  as  to  suffer  themselves  to  be  hissed  into  the 
town  by  the  little  boys  and  gals,  and  cnlled  the  Horse  Gomerils  ;  and 
that  consequently  the  corpse  as  a  body  is  as  good  as  defunct.  Not 
that  there  were  many  resign'd  at  the  end  of  the  review,  as  his  Lord- 
ship gave  a  grand  dinner  on  the  following  d.iy  tc  the  troop  :  but  I  am 


An  Objection  to  Clos^i,  g  the  Line. 


4*4 


AN  UNFAVOURABLE  REVIEW. 


sorry  to  say,  a  great  many  was  so  unhandsome  as  to  throw  up  the  very 
day  after.  The  common  excuse  among  them  was  something  of  not 
liking  to  wet  their  swords  against  their  countrymen. 

For  my  own  part,  as  the  Yeomanry  cannot  go  on,  I  shall  stick  to  it 
honorably,  and  as  any  man  of  spirit  would  do  in  my  case  ;  but  don't 
be  afraid  of  my  attending  Market,  come  what  will,  and  selling  the 
barley  at  the  best  quotation. — I  am,  dear  Brother,  Your's  and  the 
Colonel's  to  command, 

James  Cherry. 

P,S. — I  forgot  to  tell  what  will  make  you  laugh.  Barlow  wouldn't 
ride  with  spurs,  because  he  said  they  made  his  horse  prick  his  ears. 

Our  poor  corps,  small  as 
it  i-,  I  understand  is  like 
to  act  in  divisions.  Some 
wish  to  be  infantry  in- 
stead of  cavalry  ;  and  the 
farmers  from  the  hop 
grounds  want  to  be 
Polish  Lancers. 

I  hive  just  learned 
Ballard  and  nine  more 
of  the  men  was  ordered 
1^^  to  keep  the  ground  ;  but 
it  seems  they  left  before 
the  troop  came  on  it. 
They  say  in  excuse,  they 
stood  in  the  rain  till  they 
were  ready  to  drop  ;  and 
as  we  didn't  come  an 
hour  after  time,  they 
thought  everything  was 
postponed.  "  None  but 
the  brave,"  they  said, 
"deserve  the  fair;"  and 
till  it  was  fair,  they 
wouldn't  attend  again. 

The  mare  you  lent  Hal- 
lard,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
got  kicked  in  several 
places,  and  had  her  shoulder  put  out  ;  we  was  advised  to  give  her  a 
swim  in  the  sea,  and  1  am  still  more  sorry  to  say,  in  swimming  her 
we  drownded  her.  As  for  my  own  nag,  I  ;,m  afraid  he  has  got  string- 
halt  ;  but  one  comfort  is,  I  think  it  diverts  him  from  kicking. 


Peace  Officers. 


485 


"  She  Wdiks  tlie  waters  like  a  thing  of  life." 


I'M    GOING     TO    BOMBAY* 

"  Nothing  venture,  nothing  have." — Old  Proverb. 
'Ivery  Indiaman  has  at  leabt  two  mates." — Falconers  Marine  GMtdtk 


My  hair  is  brown,  my  eyes  are  bluCi 

And  reckon'd  rather  bright  ; 

I'm  shapely,  if  they  tell  me  true. 

And  just  the  proper  height  ; 

My  skin  has  been  admired  in  verse, 

And  call'd  as  fair  as  day — 

If  I  afn  fair,  so  much  the  worse, 

I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 

II. 

At  school  I  pass'd  with  some  ^cl4t ; 
I  learn'd  my  French  in  France  ; 
De  Wint  gave  lessons  how  to  draw, 
And  D'EgviUe  how  to  dance  ; — 

*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


49S  I'M  GOING  TO  BOMBAY, 

Crevelli  taught  me  how  to  sing, 
And  Cramer  how  to  play — 
It  really  is  the  strangest  thing— 
I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 

III. 
I've  been  to  Bath  and  Cheltenham  Weill, 
But  nort  their  sprinj^s  to  sip, — 
To  Ramsgate — not  to  pick  up  shells,— 
To  Brighton — not  to  dip. 
I've  tour'd  the  Lakes,  and  scour'd  the  CoaA 
From  Scarboro'  to  Torquay — 
But  though  of  time  I've  made  the  raof^ 
I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 

IV. 
By  Pa  and  Ma  I'm  daily  told 
To  marry  now's  my  time, 
For  though  I'm  very  far  from  ol^ 
I'm  rather  in  my  prime. 
They  say  while  we  have  any  sun 
We  ought  to  make  our  hay- 
But  India  has  so  hot  an  one, 
I'm  going  to  Bombay  I 

V. 

My  cousin  writes  from  Hyderapot 

My  only  chance  to  snatch, 

And  says  the  climate  is  so  hot, 

It's  sure  to  light  a  match. 

She's  married  to  a  son  of  Mars, 

With  very  handsome  pay. 

And  su  ears  I  ought  to  thank  my  start 

I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 

She  says  that  I  shall  much  delight 

To  taste  their  Indian  treats  ; 

But  what  she  likes  may  turn  me  quit^ 

Their  strange  outlandish  meats. 

If  I  can  eat  rupees,  who  knows? 

Or  dine,  the  Indian  way, 

On  doolies  and  on  bungalow*— 

I'm  going  to  Bombay  I 

VII. 
She  says  that  I  shall  much  enjoy,— 
I  don't  know  what  she  means, — 
To  take  the  air  and  buy  some  toy, 
In  my  own  palankeens, — 
I  like  to  drive  my  pony-chair, 
Or  ride  our  dapple  grey— 


VM  GOING  TO  BOMB  A  Y. 

But  elephants  are  horses  there — 
I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 

VIII. 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  parents  dear  1 

My  friends,  farewell  to  them  ! 

And  oh.  what  costs  a  sadder  tear, 

Good  bve,  to  Mr  M.  !— 

If  I  should  find  an  Indian  vault. 

Or  fall  a  tiger's  prey, 

Or  steep  in  salt,  it's  all  /lis  fault 

I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 

IX. 

That  fine  new  teak-built  ship,  the  Fox, 
A.I — Commander  Bird, 
Now  lying  m  the  London  Docks, 
Will  sail  on  May  the  third  ; 
Apply  for  passage  or  for  freight 
To  Nichol,  Scott,  &  Gray — 
.  Pa  has  applied  and  seal'd  my  fate — 
I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 


487 


My  heart  is  full— my  trunks  as  well ; 

My  mind  and  caps  made  up, 

My  corsets,  shaped  by  Mrs  Bell, 

Are  promised  ere  I  sup  ; 

With  boots  and  shoes,  Rivarta's  best 

And  dresses  by  Duc^, 

And  a  special  license  in  my  chest — • 

I'm  going  to  Bombay  ! 


'  The  Court  of  an  Indian  Princa. 


4S8 


ODE 

TO  THE  ADVOCATES   FOR  THE  REMOVAL  OF  SMITHFIELD  MARKET.* 

"Sweeping  our  flocks  and  herds." — Douglas. 

0  PHILANTHROPIC  men  ! — 

For  this  address  I  need  not  make  apology — 
Who  aim  at  clearing  out  the  Smithfield  pen, 
And  planting  further  off  its  vile  Zoology — 
Permit  me  thus  to  tell, 

1  like  your  efforts  well, 

For  rousting  that  great  nest  of  Hornithology  ! 

Be  not  dismay'd,  although  repulsed  at  first. 
And  driven  from  their  Horse,  and  Pig,  and  Lamb  parts, 
Charge  on  !—  you  shall  upon  their  hornworks  burst, 
And  carry  all  their  Bu//-warks  and  their  /iam-parts. 

Go  on,  ye  wholesale  drovers  ! 
And  drive  away  the  Smithfield  flocks  and  herds  ! 

As  wild  as  Tartar-Curds, 
That  come  so  fat,  and  kicking,  from  their  clovers, 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


ODE. 


4S9 


Off  with  them  all  1— those  restive  brutes,  that  vex 

Our  streets,  and  plunge,  and  lunge,  and  butt,  and  battle  ; 

And  save  the  female  sex 

From  being  cow'd — like  16— by  the  cattle! 

Fancy, — when  droves  appear  on 
The  hill  of  Holborn,  roaring  from  its  top, — 
Your  ladies,  ready,  as  they  own,  to  drop, 
Taking  themselves  to  Thomsons  with  a  Fear-onl 


I  see  Cattle  I 

Or,  in  St  Martin's  Lane, 
Scared  by  a  bullock,  in  a  frisky  vein, — 
Fancy  the  terror  of  your  timid  daughters, 

While  rushing  souse 

Into  a  coffee-house. 
To  find  it — Slaughter's  J 


Or  fancy  this  : — 
Walking  along  the  street,  some  stranger  Miss, 
Her  head  with  no  such  thought  of  danger  Liden, 
When  suddenly  'tis  "  Aries  Taurus  Virgo  !" — 
You  don't  know  Latin,  I  translate  it  ergo, 
Into  your  Areas  a  Bull  throws  the  Maiden  ! 


490  ODE. 

Think  of  some  poor  old  crone 
Treated,  just  like  a  penny,  with  a  toss, 

At  that  vile  spot  now  grown 

So  generally  known 
For  making  a  Cow  Cross  ! 

Nay,  fancy  your  own  selves  far  off  from  stall, 
Or  shed,  or  shop — and  that  an  ox  infuriate 

Just  pins  you  to  the  wall, 
Giving  you  a  strong  dose  of  Oxy-Muriate  I 

Methinks  I  hear  the  neighbours  that  live  round 

The  Market-ground 
Thus  make  appeal  unto  their  civic  fellows  :— 
*"Tis  well  for  you  that  live  apart — unable 

To  hear  this  brutal  Babel, 
But  o\xx fif-esides  are  troubled  with  their  bellows. 

Folks  that  too  freely  sup 

Must  e'en  put  up 
With  their  own  troubles,  if  they  can't  digest; 

But  we  must  needs  regard 

The  case  as  hard 
That  others^  victuals  shuuld  disturb  our  rest, 
That  from  our  sleep  ^(?«r  food  should  start  and  jump  US  I 

We  like,  ourselves,  a  steak, 

But,  Sirs,  for  pity's  sake, 
We  don't  want  oxen  at  our  doors  to  ruinp-us\ 
If  we  do  doze — it  really  is  too  bad  ! 
We  constantly  are  roar'd  awake  or  rung, 

Through  bullocks  mad 
That  run  in  all  the  '  Night  Thoughts  '  of  our  Young  I* 

Such  are  the  woes  of  sleepers — now  let's  take 

The  woes  of  those  that  wish  to  keep  a  Wake  I 

Oh,  think  !  when  Wombwell  gives  his  annual  feasts, 

Think  of  these  "  Bulls  of  Bashan,"  far  from  mild  ones* 

Such  fierce  tame  beasts, 
That  nobody  much  cares  to  see  the  wild  ones ! 

Think  of  the  Show-woman,  "  what  shows  a  dwarf," 

Seeing  a  red  cow  come 

To  swallow  her  Tom  Thumb, 
And  forced  with  broom  of  birch  to  keep  her  off  1 

Think,  too,  of  Messrs  Richnrdson  &  Co., 
When  looking  at  their  public  private  boxes, 

To  see  in  the  back  row 
Three  live  sheep's  heads,  a  porker's,  and  an  ox's  t 
Thinlc  of  their  Orchestra,  when  two  horns  come 
Through,  to  accompany  the  double  drum  1 


ODE. 

Or,  in  the  midst  of  murder  and  remorses, 
Just  when  the  Ghost  is  certiiin, 
A  great  rent  in  the  curtain, 

And  enter  two  tall  skeletons — of  horses  ! 

Great  Philanthropies  !  pray  urge  these  topics 
Upon  the  Solemn  Councils  of  the  Nation; 
Get  a  Bill  soon,  and  give,  some  noon, 
The  bulls,  a  Bull  of  Excommunication  ! 


491 


A  Bull  of  Excommunication. 


Let  the  old  Fair  have  fairplay  as  its  right, 

And  to  each  show  and  sight 
Ye  shall  be  treated  with  a  Free  List  latitude  ; 

To  Richardson's  Stage  Dramas, 

Dio — and  Cosmo — ramas. 

Giants  and  Indians  wild, 

Dwarf,  Sea-bear,  and  Fat  Child, 
And  that  most  rare  of  Shows — a  Show  of  Gratitude  ! 


492 


"Arma  Virumque  Canoe." 


DRA  WN  FOR  A  SOLDIER* 

I  WAS  once — for  a  few  hours  only — in  the  militia.  I  suspect  I  was 
in  part  answerable  for  my  own  mishap.  There  is  a  story  in  Joe 
Miller  of  a  man  who,  being  pressed  to  serve  his  Majesty  on  another 
element,  pleaded  his  polite  breeding,  to  the  gang,  as  a  good  ground  of 
exemption  ;  but  was  told  that  the  crew  being  a  set  of  sad  unmannerly 
dogs,  a  Chesterfield  was  the  very  character  they  wanted.  The  militia- 
men acted,  I  presume,  on  the  same  principle.  Their  customary 
schedule  was  forwarded  to  me,  at  Brighton,  to  fill  up,  and  in  a  moment 
of  incautious  hilarity — induced,  perhaps,  by  the  absence  of  all  business 
or  employment,  except  pleasure — 1  wrote  myself  down  in  the  descrip- 
tive column  as  "  Quite  a  Gentieinan.". 

The  consequence  followed  immediately.  A  precept,  addressed  by 
the  Hitjh  Consta'ole  of  Westminster  to  the  Low  ditto  of  tlie  parish  of 
St  M*****,  and  endorsed  with  my  name,  informed  me  tiiat  it  had 
turned  up  in  that  involuntary  lottery,  the  IJallot. 

At  sight  of  the  Orderly,  who  thought  proi  er  to  deliver  the  document 
into  no  other  hands  than  mine,  my  mother-m-liw  cried,  and  my  wife 
fainted  on  the  spot.  They  had  no  notion  of  any  distinctions  in  mili- 
tary service — a  soldier  was  a  soldier — and  they  imagnied  that,  on  the 
very  morrow,  I  mii^ht  be  ordered  abre)ad  to  a  fresh  Waterloo.  They 
were  unfortunately  ignorant  of  that  benevolent  provision  which  ab- 
solved the  militia  from  going  out  of  the  kingdom — "except  in  case  of 
an  invasion."  In  vain  I  represented  that  we  were  "  locals  ;  " — they  had 
heard  of  local  diseases,  and  thought  there  might  be  wounds  of  the 
same  description.  In  vain  I  exolained  that  we  were  not  troops  of  the 
line  ; — they  could  see  nothing  to  choose  between  being  shot  in  a  line, 
or  in  any  other  figure.  I  told  them,  next,  that  I  was  not  obliged  to 
"serve  myself;" — but  they  answered,  "'twas  so  much  the  harder  I 
*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


DRA  WN  FOR  A  SOLDIER.  493 

should  be  obliged  to  serve  any  one  else."  My  being  sent  abrond,  they 
said,  would  be  the  death  of  them  ;  for  they  had  witnessed,  at  Rams- 
gate,  the  embarkation  of  the  Walcheren  Expedition,  and  too  well 
remembered  "  the  misery  of  the  soldiers'  wives  at  seeing  their  husbands 
in  transports ! " 

I  told  them  that,  at  the  very  worst,  if  I  should  he  sent  abroad,  there 
was  no  reason  why  I  should  not  return  again  ;  but  they  both  declared, 
they  never  did,  and  never  would  believe  in  those  "  Returns  of  the 
Killed  and  Wounded." 

The  discussion  was  in  this  stage  when  it  was  interrupted  by  another 
loud  single  knock  at  the  door, — a  report  equal  in  its  effects  on  us  to 
that  of  the  memorable  cannon-shot  at  Pjrussels  ;  and  before  we  could 
recover  ourselves,  a  strapping  Serjeant  entered  tiie  parlour  with  a  huge 
bow,  or  rather  rainbow,  of  party-coloured  ribbons  in  his  cap.  He 
came,  he  said,  to  otYer  a  substitute  for  me  ;  but  I  was  prevented  from 
reply  by  the  indignant  fenrales  askizig  him  in  the  same  breath, 
"  Who  and  what  did  he  think  could  be  a  substitute  for  a  son  and  a 
husband?" 

The  poor  Serjeant  looked  foolish  enough  at  this  turn  ;  but  he  was 
still  more  abashed  when  the  two  anxious  ladics  began  to  cross- 
examine  him  on  the  length  of  his  services  abroad,  and  the  number  of 
his  wounds — the  campaigns  of  the  militiaman  having  been  confined 
doubtless  to  Hounslow,  and  his  bodily  marks-militant  to  the  three 
stripes  on  his  sleeve.  Parrying  these  awkward  questions,  he  endea- 
voured to  prevail  upon  me  to  see  the  proposed  proxy,  a  fine  young 
fellow,  he  assured  me,  of  unusual  stature  ;  but  1  told  him  it  was  quite 
an  indifferent  point  with  me  whether  he  was  six-feet-two  or  two-feet-six, 
in  short,  whether  he  was  as  tall  as  the  fla;^  or  '"under  the  stanaard." 

The  truth  is,  1  reflected  that  it  was  a  time  of  profound  peace,  that  a 
civil  war  or  an  invasion  was  very  unlikely  ;  and  as  for  an  occasional 
drill,  that  I  could  make  shift,  like  Lavater,  to  right-about-face. 

Accordingly  I  declined  seeing  the  substitute,  and  dismissed  the 
Serjeant  with  a  note  to  the  War  Secret  'ry  to  this  purport  : — "  I'liat  I 
considered  myself  drawn,  and  expected  therefore  to  be  well  quartered. 
That,  uhder  the  circumstances  of  the  country,  it  would  probably  be 
unnecessary  for  militia-men  '  to  be  mustarded  ; '  but  that  if  his  Majesty 
did  ^  call  me  out,'  I  hoped  I  should  '■give  him  s  tisfaction.'" 

The  females  were  far  from  being  pleased  with  this  billet.  They 
talked  a  great  deal  of  moral  suicide,  wilful  murder,  and  seeking  the 
bubble  reputation  in  the  cannon's  mouth  ;  but  I  shall  ever  think  that 
I  took  the  proper  course,  for,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  hours,  two  more 
of  the  General's  red-coats,  or  general  postmen,  brought  me  a  large 
packet  sealed  with  the  War  Office  seal,  and  superscribed  "Henry 
Hardinge,"  by  which  I  was  officially  absolved  from  serving  on  horse 
or  on  foot,  or  on  both  together,  then  and  thereafter. 

And  wliy,  I  know  not — unless  his  Majesty  doubted  the  handsome- 
ness of  discharging  me  in  particular,  without  letting  off  the  rest  ; — but 
so  it  was,  that  in  a  short  time  afterwards  there  issued  a  proclamation, 
b^  which  the  se'"vices  of  all  militiamen  were  for  the  present  dispensed 
with, — and  we  were  left  to  pursue  our  several  avocations, — of  coursCi 
all  the  lighter  ys  our  spirits  tor  being  disembodied. 


494 


Sharp,  Flat,  and  Natural. 


ODE    FOR    ST   CECILIA' S    EVE* 

"  Look  out  for  squalls."— r^?  Pilot. 

O  COME,  dear  Barney  Isaacs,  come  ! 
Punch  for  one  night  can  spare  his  drum, 

As  well  as  pipes  of  Pan  ! 
Forget  not,  Popkins,  your  bassoon, 
Nor,  Master  Bray,  your  horn,  as  soon 

As  you  fan  leave  the  van  : 
Blind  Billy,  bring  your  violin  ; 
Miss  Crow,  you're  great  in  "  Cherry  Ripe  !** 
And  Chubb,  your  viol  must  drop  in 
Its  bass  to  Soger  Tommy's  pipe. 

Ye  butchers,  bring  your  bones  : 
An  organ  would  not  be  amiss  ; 
If  grinding  Jim  has  spouted  his, 

Lend  your's,  good  Mister  Jones. 
Do,  hurdygurdy  Jenny,  do  » 

Keep  sober  for  an  hour  or  two. 
Music's  charms  to  help  to  paint. 
And  Sandy  Gray,  if  you  should  not 
Your  bagpipes  bring— O  tuneful  Scot ! 
Conceive  the  feeling  of  the  Saint ! 

Miss  Strummel  issues  an  invite 
For  music  and  turn-out  to  night 
In  honour  of  Cecilia's  session  ; 
But  ere  you  go,  one  moment  stop, 
And  with  all  kindness  let  me  drop 
A  hint  to  you,  and  your  profession. 
Imprimis  then  :   Pray  keep  within 
The  bounds  to  which  your  skill  was  born; 
Let  the  one-handed  let  alone  trombone, 
*  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


ODE  FOR  ST  CECILIA 'S  EVE.  49J 

Don't — Rheumntiz  !  seize  the  violin^ 

Or  Ashmy  snatch  the  horn  ! 

Don't  ever  to  such  rows  give  birth, 

As  if  you  had  no  end  on  earth, 

Except  to  "  wake  the  lyre  ;  " 

Don't  "  strike  the  harp," — pray  never  do, 

Till  others  long  to  strike  it  too — 

Perpetual  harping's  apt  to  tire.    . 

Oh,  I  have  heard  such  flat-and-sharpers, 

I've  blest  the  head 

Of  good  King  Ned, 
For  scragging  all  those  old  Welsh  Harpewl 

Pray,  never,  ere  each  tuneful  doing, 
Take  a  prodigious  deal  of  wooing  ; 
And  then  sit  down  to  thrum  the  strain 
As  if  you'd  never  rise  again — 
The  least  Cecilia-like  of  things  ; 
Remember  that  the  Saint  has  wings. 
I've  known  Miss  Strummei  pause»an  hour 
Ere  she  could  "  Pluck  the  Fairest  Flower," 
Yet,  without  hesitation,  she 
Plunged  next  into  the  "  Deep,  Deep  Sea  ;• 
And  when  on  the  keys  she  does  begin, 
Such  awful  torments  soon  you  share, 
She  really  seems  like  Milton's  "  Sm," 
Holding  the  keys  of — you  know  where  1 

Never  tweak  people's  ears  so  toughly, 
That  urchin-like  they  can't  help  saying— 
"  O  dear  !  O  dear— you  call  this  playing. 
But  oh,  it's  playing  very  roughly  !" 
Oft,  in  the  ecstasy  of  pain, 
I've  cursed  all  instrumental  workmen, 
Wish'd  Broadwood  Thurtell'd  in  a  lane, 
And  Kirke  White's  fate  to  every  Kirkmaai 
I  really  once,  delighted,  spied 
**  dementi  Collard  "  in  Cheapside. 
Another  word, — don't  be  surprised, 
Revered  and  ragged  street  Musicians,— 
You  have  been  only  half-baptized, 
And  each  name,  proper  or  improper. 
Is  not  the  value  of  a  copper 
Till  it  has  had  the  due  addition^ 

Husky,  Rusky, 

Ninny,  Tinny, 

Hummel,  Hummel, 

Bowski,  Wowski. 
All  these  are  very  good  selectables ;  ' 

But  none  of  your  plain  pudding-and-tame»— • 


496  ODE  FOR  ST  CECILIA 'S  EVE. 

Folks  that  are  call'd  the  hardest  names 
Are  Music's  most  respectables. 
Every  woman,  every  man, 
Look,  as  foreiL;n  as  you  can  ; 
Don't  cut  your  hair,  or  wash  your  skil)( 
Make  ugly  faces  and  begin. 


Fancy  Portrait : — Kirke  White- 


Each  Dingy  Orpheus  gravely  hears, 
And  now  to  show  they  understand  it  [ 
Miss  Crow  her  scrannel  throttle  clears, 
And  all  the  rest  prepare  to  band  it  ; 
Each  scraper,  ripe  for  conceriante. 
Rosins  the  hair  of  Rozinante  : 
Then  all  sound  A,  if  they  know  which, 
That  they  may  join  like  birds  in  June  • 
Jack  Tar  alone  neglects  to  tune, 
For  he's  all  over  concert-pitch. 

A  little  prelude  goes  before, 
Like  a  knock  and  ring  at  Music's  door><a 
Each  instrument  gives  in  its  name  j 
Then  sitting  in, 
They  all  begin 
To  play  a  musical  round  game. 
Scrapenberg,  as  the  eldest  hand, 
Leads  a  first  fiddle  to  the  band, 

A  second  follows  suit  ; 
Anon  the  ace  of  horns  comes  plump 
On  the  two  fiddles  with  a  trump  j 

Puffindorf  plays  a  flute. 


ODE  FOR  ST  CECILIA 'S  EVR,  091 

This  sort  of  musical  revoke 
The  grave  bassoon  begins  to  smolce^ 
And  in  rather  grumpy  kind 
Of  tone  begins  to  speak  its  mind  ; 
The  double  drum  is  next  to  mix, 
Playing  the  "  Devil  on  Two  Sticks*— 
Clamour,  clamour, 
Hammer,  hammer  ; 
While  now  and  then  a  pipe  is  heard. 
Insisting  to  put  in  a  word, 

With  all  his  shrilly  best  ; 
So,  to  allow  the  little  minion 
Time  to  deliver  his  opinion, 

They  take  a  few  bars'  rest. 


Well,  little  Pipe  begins — ^with  sole 
And  small  voice  going  thro'  the  ^A% 

Beseeching, 

Preaching, 

Squealing, 

Appealing, 
Now  as  high  as  he  can  go, 
Kow  in  language  rather  low, 
And  having  done,  begins  once  mors 
Verbatim  what  he  said  before. 
This  twiddling  twaddling  sets  on  fire 
All  tio   lid  instrumental  ire, 
And  tifi'llcs  for  explosion  ripe 
Put  ouft  the  little  squeaker's  pipe  ; 
This  wa^kes  bass  viol — and  viol  for  that. 
Seizing  on  innocent  little  B  flat, 
Shakes  it  like  terrier  shaking  a  rat— 
They  all  seem  miching  malico  ! 
To  judge  from  a  rumble  unawares. 
The  drum  has  had  a  pitch  downstairs  | 
And  the  trumpet  rash, 
By  a  violent  crash, 
Seems  splitting  somebody's  calico  I 
The  viol  too  groans  in  deep  distress, 
As  if  he  suddenly  grew  sick  ; 
And  one  rapid  fiddle  sets  off  expres*— 

Hurrying, 

Scurrying, 

Spattering, 

Clattering, 
To  fetch  him  a  Doctor  of  Music. 
This  tumult  sets  the  hautboy  crying 
Beyond  the  piano's  pacifying  j 

The  cymbal 

Gets  nimble, 

SI 


498  ODE  FOR  ST  CECILIA 'S  EVE. 

Triangle 
Must  wrangle ; 
The  band  is  becoming  most  martial  of  bands, 
When  just  in  the  middle, 
A  quakerly  fiddle 
Proposes  a  general  shaking  of  hands  ! 
Quaking, 
Sh.iking, 
Quivering, 
Shivering, 
Long  bow — short  bow — each  bow  drawing  ; 
Some  like  filing, — some  like  sawing. 
At  last  these  agitations  cease, 
And  they  all  get 
The  flageolet, 
To  breathe  "  A  Piping  Time  of  Peace.* 
Ah,  too  deceitful  charm, 
Like  lightening  before  death, 
For  Scrapenberg  to  rest  his  arm, 
And  Puffindorf  get  breath  ! 


A  Grand  Upright. 


Again,  without  remorse  or  pity, 

They  play  "  The  Storming  of  a  City," — 

Miss  S,  herself  composed  and  plann'd  it  J 

When  lo  !  at  this  renew'd  attack, 

Up  jumps  a  little  man  in  black, — 

**  The  very  Devil  cannot  stand  it ! " 


REELECTIONS  ON  WATER,  499 

And  with  that, 
Snatching  hut 
(Not  his  own), 
Off  is  flown, 
Thro'  the  door, 
In  his  black, 
To  come  back, 
Never,  never,  never  more  I 

O  Music  !  praises  thou  hast  had 

From  Dryden  and  from  Pope 
For  thy  good  notes,  yet  none,  I  hopC^ 

But  I,  e'er  praised  the  bad  ; 
Yet  are  not  samt  and  sinner  even^ 
Miss  Strummel  on  Cecilia's  level  ? 
One  drew  an  angel  down  from  heaven, 
The  other  scared  away  the  Devil ! 


REFLECTIONS   ON  WATER* 

"When  the  butt  is  out,  we  will  drink  water  :  not  a  drop  before." — Tempest, 

I  HAVE  Stephano's  aversion  to  water.  I  never  tnke  any  by  chance 
into  my  mouth,  without  the  proneness  of  our  Tritons  and  Dolphins 
of  the  Fountiun, — to  spout  it  forth  ag.iin.  It  is,  on  the  palate,  ns  intubs 
and  hand-basins,  e.uregiously  washy.  It  hath  not  for  me  even  what 
is  called  "  an  amiable  weakness."  For  the  sake  only  of  quantity,  not 
quality,  do  I  sometimes  adulterate  my  Cognac  ur  Geneva  with  the 
flimsy  fluid.  Aquarius  is  not  my  sign  ;  at  the  praises  heaped  on  Sir 
Hu;4h  Myddleton,  for  hading  his  trite  strejmlet  up  to  London,  my 
lip  curleth.  Methinks  if  such  a  sloppy  labour  could  at  one  time  more 
th.in  another  betray  a  misguided  taste,  it  was  in  those  days,  when  we 
are  told,  "The  Crete  Conduict,  in  Chepe,  did  runne  forth  Wyne." 
And  then  to  hear  talk  withal  of  the  New  River  Head, — as  if,  forsooth, 
the  weak  current  poured  even  from  Ware  unto  London  were  capable 
of  that  goodly-headed  capital,  the  caput  of  Stout  Porter  or  lusty  Ale. 

The  taste  for  aquatics  is  none  of  mine.  I  l.iugh  at  Cowes' — it 
should  be  Calves' — Regattas  ;  it  passtth  my  understanding  to  con- 
ceive the  pleasure  of  contending  with  all  \our  sail  and  sea,  your  might 
and  main,  for  a  prize  cup  of  water.  Gentle  re.idtr,  if  ever  we  two  should 
encounter  at  good  men's  feasts,  sny  not  before  me,  that  "  your  mouth 
waters,"  for  fear  of  my  compelled  rejoinder,  ''  The  more  pump  you  !  " 

I  am  told — Die  mihi — by  Sir  Lauder  Dick,  that  the  great  floods  in 
Momyshire  destroyed  1  know  not  how  many  Scottish  bridges — and  I 
believe  it.  The  element  was  alwa\s  our  Arch-Enemy.  Witness  the 
Deluge,  when  the  whole  humankind  would  have  perished,  with  water 
on  the  chest,  but  for  Noah's  chest  on  the  water.  Drowning — by  some 
•  Comic  Annual,  1S31. 


500 


REFLECTIONS  ON  WATER. 


Wl^3lCfc^,J 


called  Dying  made  Easy — is  to  my  notions  horrible.  Conceive  an  unfor- 
tunate gentleman — not  by  any  means  thirsty — compelled  to  swill  Ljulp 
after  gulp  of  the  vapid  fluid,  even  to  swelling,  "as  the  water  you  know 
will  swell  a  man."  If  I  said  I  would  rather  be  hanged,  it  would  be  but 
the  truth  ;  although  "Veritas  in  Puteo"  hath  given  me  almost  a  dis- 
relish for  truth  itself. 

Excepting  their  ima^^i- 
nary  Castaly,  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  what 
poet  hath  sung  ever  in 
the  praise  of  water?  Of 
wine,  many.  "  Tak 
Tent"  said  the  Scottisli 
Burns  :  "  Oh,  was  ye  at 
the  She7'ry?^^ — singeth 
another.  The      lofty 

Douglas,  in  commending 
Norval,  thus  hinteth  his 
cellar:  "  His P^r/ Hike." 
Shakespeare  discourseth 
eloquently  of  both  as 
"  Red  and  white,"  and 
addeth — "  with  sweet  and 
cunning  hand  laid  on;" 
i.e.,  laid  on  in  pipes.  For 
Madeira,  see  Bowles  of 
it  ;  and  the  Muse  of 
Prin^le  luxuriates  in  the 
Cape.  Then  IS  there  also 
Mountain  celebrated  by 
Pope, —  "  The  shepherd 
lovts  the  Mountain,"— to 
Moslem,  forbidden  drought  ;  yet  which  Mahomet  would  condescend 
to  fete  h  himself,  if  it  failed  in  coming  to  hand.  Sack,  too,— as  dear  to 
Oriental  Sultanas  as  his  Malmsey  to  Clarence, — is  by  Byron  touched 
on  in  his  "Corsair;"  but  then,  through  some  Koran-scrupulousness 
perchance,  they  take  it — in  water  ! 

Praise  there  hath  been  of  water  ;  but,  as  became  the  subject,  in 
prose  ;  M.  hath  written  a  volume,  I  am  told,  in  its  commendation, 
and  atsove  all,  of  its  nutritive  quality  :  and  truly  to  see  it  floating  the 
Victory,  with  all  her  armament  and  complement  of  guns  and  men.  one 
must  confess  there  is  some  support  in  it— at  least  as  an  outward  appli- 
cation !  but  then,  taken  internally,  look  at  the  wreck  of  the  Royal 
George  ! 

The  mention  of  men-of-war  bringeth  to  mind,  opportunely,  certain 
marine  reminiscences  pertinent  to  this  subject,  referring  some  years 
backward,  when,  with  other  uniform  than  my  present  invariable  sables, 
I  was  stationed  at  *  *  *,  on  the  coast  of  Sussex.  Little  as  my 
present-tense  habits  and  occup.itions  savour  of  the  past  sea-service, 
—yet,  reader,  in  the  Navy  List,  amongst  the  Commanders  of  years 
bygone,  in  the  ship's  books  ol   H.M.S    Hyperion,  presently  lying  in 


The  Arch-Eneray. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  WATER. 


501 


the  sequestered  harbour  of  Newhaven,  thou  wilt  find  occurring  the 
surname  of  Hood  ;  a  name  associated  by  friends,  marine  and  me- 
chanic, with  a  contrivance  for  expelling  tlie  old  enemy,  water,  by  a 
novel  construction  of  ships'  pumps. 

Stanchest  of  my  sect — the  Adam's-Ale-Shunners— wert  thou,  old 
Samuel  Spiller  !  in  the  nuister-roU  characterised  an  Able  Seaman,  but 
most  notable  for  a  landsman's  aversion  to  unmitigated  w.iter,  h.ird 
or  soft— fresh  or  salt !     A  petty  officer  wert  thou  in  that  armed  band 


Running  Spirits. 

versus  contraband,  the  Coast  Blockade,  by  some  miscalled  the  Pre- 
ventive Service,  if  service  it  be  to  prevent  the  influx  of  wholesome 
spirits.  To  do  the  smutzgler  bare  justice,  no  seaman,  Nelson-bred, 
payeth  greater  reverence  or  obedience  to  that  signal  sentence, — 
"England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty  T^  thnn  he.  Thine, 
Spiller,  was  done  to  the  uttermost.  Spirits,  legal  or  illegal,  in  tub  or 
flask  or  pewter  measure,  didst  thou  inexorably  seize,  and  gauger-like 
try  the  depth  thereof, — thy  Royal  Master,  His  Majesty,  at  the  latter 
end  of  the  seizures,  faring  no  better  than  thy  own-begotten  sea- 
urchin,  of  whom,  one  day,  remarking  that — "he  took  after  his  father," 
the  young  would-be  Trinculo  retorted,  "  Father  never  leaveth  none  to 
take."  There  were  strange  rumours  afloat  and  ashore,  Samuel  ! 
of  thy  unprofitable  vigilance.  Many  an  illicit  Child—i.e.,  a  small 
keg — hath  been  laid  at  thy  door.  Thou  hadst  a  becoming  respect 
for  thy  comrades,  as  brave  men  and  true,   who  could  stand  fire; 


JU  A  BLOWUP.    . 

but  the  smugglers,  I  fear,  were  ranked  a  streak  higher — as  men  who 
could  stand  treat.  Still  were  thy  misdeeds  like  much  of  thy  own 
beverage — beyond  proof.  Even  as  those  delinquent  utterers  of 
base  notes,  who  swallow  their  own  dangerous  forgeries,  so  didst 
thou  gulp  down  whatever  mi^ht  else  have  appeared  against  thee  in 
evidence.  There  was  no  entrapping  thee,  like  rat  or  weazel,  in  that 
Gin  from  which,  deriving  a  sea-peerage,  thou  wert  commonly  known 
— with  no  offence,  1  trust,  to  the  noble  vassal  of  Kensington — as 
Lord  Hollands. 

It  was  by  way  of  water-penance  for  one  of  these  Cassio-like  derelic- 
tions of  mine  Ancient,  that  one  evening — the  evening  succeeding  the 
great  sea-temiest  of  1814^1  give  him  charge  of  a  boat's  crew,  to 
bring  in  sundry  fragmental  relics  of  some  shipwrecked  argosy  that 
were  reported  to  be  adrift  in  our  offing.  In  two  hours  he  returned, 
and,  like  Ven  itor  and  Piscator,  we  immediately  fell  into  dialogue, — 
Piscator,  i.e.,  Spiller,  "  for  fear  of  dripping  the  carpet,"  standing  aloof, 
a  vox  ei preterea  nihil,  in  a  dark  entry 

"  Well,  Spiller," — my  phraseology  was  not  then  inoculated  with 
the  quaintness  it  hath  since  imbibed  from  after-lecture — "  Well, 
Spiller,  what  have  you  picked  up  .'"' 

"A  jib-boom,  I  think,  Sir;  a  capital  spar;  and  part  of  a  ship's 
starn — the  '  Planter  of  Barbadies,' — famous  plaoe  for  rum,  Sir  !" 

"  Was  there  any  sea — are  you  wet?" 

"  Only  up  to  my  middle.  Sir." 

"Very  well — stow  away  the  wreck,  and  go  to  your  grog.  Tell  Bunce 
^  give  you  all  double  allowance." 

"Thank  your  Honour's  Honour!" 

The  voice  ceased,  and  a  pair  of  ponderous  sea-soles,  with  tramp 
audible  as  the  marble  foot  of  the  Spectre  in  Giovanni,  went  hurrying 
down  our  main-hatchway.  Certain  misgivings  of  a  discrepancy  between 
the  imputed  drenching  and  the  weather,  an  appeal  askance  of  the  rurn 
cask,  joined  with  a  curiosity,  perchance,  to  ins.ect  the  ship-fr.igments 
— our  flotsam  and  jetsam — led  me  soon  afterwards  below,  and  there, 
in  the  messroom,  sate  mine  officer,  high  and  dry,  with  a  huge  tankard 
in  his  starboard  hand.  I  made  an  obvious  remark  on  it,  and  had  an 
answer — for  Michael  Spiller  was  no  adept  in  the  Chesterfleldian  refine- 
ments— from  the  interior  of  the  drinking  vessel — 

"  Your  Honour's  right,  and  I  ax  your  Honour's  pardon.  I  warn't 
wet !  but  I  was  very  dry  I " 


A  SLOW- UP* 

••  Here  we  go,  np,  up,  up." — T/u  Lay  0/  ike  First  MinsireL 

Near  Battle,  Mr  Peter  Baker 
Was  powder-maker  ; 
Not  Alderman  Flower's  flour, — the  white  that  pufifs 
And  primes  and  loads  heads  bald,  or  grey,  or  chowder, 

*  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


A  BLOW-UP.  503 

Figgins  and  Higgins,  Fipnins,  Filby, — Crowder, 
Not  vile  apothecary's  pounded  stuffs, 
But  something  blacker,  bloodier,  and  louder- 
Gunpowder  ! 

This  stuff,  as  people  know,  is  semper 
Eadem  ;  very  hasty  in  its  temper — 
Like  Honour  that  resents  the  gentlest  taps. 
Mere  semblances  of  blows,  however  slight ; 
So  powder  fires,  although  you  only  p'rhaps 

Strike  light. 
To  make  it,  therefore,  is  a  tickhsh  business, 
And  sometimes  gives  both  head  and  heart  a  dizziness,— 
For  all  us  human  flash  and  fancy  minders, 
Frequenting  fights  and  powder-works,  well  know 
There  seldom  is  a  mill  without  a  blow, 
Sometimes  upon  the  grinders. 
But  then — the  melancholy  phrase  to  soften — 
Mr  B.'s  mill  transpired  ^o  very  often  ! 
And  advertised — than  all  Price  Currents  louder^— 
*'  Fragments  look  up — there  is  a  rise  in  powder," 
So  frequently,  it  caused  the  neighbours'  wonder,— 
And  certain  people  had  the  inhumanity 
To  lay  it  all  to  Mr  Baker's  vanity. 
That  he  might  have  to  say — "  That  was  my  thunder  I* 

One  day — so  goes  the  tale — 

Whether,  with  iron  hoof. 

Not  sparkle-proof, 
Some  ninny-hammer  struck  upon  a  nail, — 
Whether  some  glow-worm  of  the  Guy  Faux  stamp^ 
Crept  in  the  buildmg  with  Unsafety  Lamp — 
One  day  this  mill,  that  had  by  water  ground, 
Became  a  sort  of  windmill,  and  blew  round, 
With  bounce  that  went  ifl  sound  as  far  as  Dover — ^it 
Sent  half  the  workmen  sprawling  to  the  sky, 
Besides  some  visitors,  who  gain'd  thereby. 
What  they  had  ask'd — permission  "  to  go  over  it  !* 
Of  course  it  was  a  very  hard  and  high  blow, 
And  somewhat  differ'd  from  what's  call'd  a  flyblow. 
At  Cowes'  Re.yatta,  as  I  once  observed, 
A  pistol-shot  made  twenty  vessels  start  ; 
If  such  a  sound  could  terrify  oak's  heart. 
Think  how  this  crash  the  human  nerve  unnerved. 
In  fact,  it  was  a  very  awfid  thing, — 
As  people  know  that  have  been  used  to  battle. 
In  springing  either  mine  or  mill,  you  spring 

A  precious  rattle  ! 
The  dunniest  heard  it — poor  old  Mr  F. 
Doubted  for  once  if  he  was  ever  deaf ; 
Through  Tunbridge  town  it  caused  most  strange  alarms,— 


50f  A  BLOW-UP. 

Mr  and  Mrs  Fogg, 

Who  lived  like  cat  and  dog, 
Were  shock'd  for  once  into  each  other's  armai 
Miss  M.  the  milliner — her  fright  so  strong — 
Made  a  great  gobble-stitch  six  inches  long  ; 
The  veriest  quakers  quaked  against  their  wish  ; 
The  "  Best  of  Sons  "  was  taken  unawares, 
And  kick'd  the  "  Best  of  Parents  "  down  the  stairs  t 
The  steadiest  servant  dropp'd  the  china  dish  ; 
A  thousand  started,  though  there  was  but  one 
Fated  to  win,  and  that  was  Mister  Dunn, 
Who  struck  convulsively,  and  hook'd  a  fish ! 

Miss  Wiggins,  with  some  grass  upon  her  forl^ 
Toss'd  it  just  like  a  haymaker  at  work ; 
Her  sister  not  in  any  better  case, 

For,  taking  wine 

With  nervous  Mr  Pyne, 
He  jerk'd  his  glass  of  sherry  in  her  face. 

Poor  Mrs  Davy 
Bobb'd  off  her  brand-new  turban  in  the  gravy  | 
While  Mr  Davy,  at  the  lower  end 
Preparing  for  a  goose  a  carver's  labour, 
Darted  his  two-pronged  weapon  in  his  neighboar. 
As  if  for  once  he  meant  to  help  a  friend. 

The  nurse-maid,  telling  little  "  Jack-a-Norey," 
•'  Bo-peep  "  and  "  Blue-Cap  "  at  the  house's  top, 
Scream'd,  and  let  Master  Jeremiah  drop 

From  a  fourth  storey  ! 
Nor  yet  did  matters  any  better  go 
With  cook  and  housemaid  in  the  realms  below  ; 
As  for  the  laundress,  timid  Martha  Gunning, 
Expressing  faintness  and  her  fear  by  fits 
And  starts, — she  came  at  last  but  to  her  wits 
By  falling  in  the  ale  that  John  left  running. 

Grave  Mr  Miles,  the  meekest  of  mankind. 
Struck  all  at  once  deaf,  stupid,  dumb,  and  blind. 
Sat  in  his  chaise  some  moments  like  a  corse, 

Then  coming  to  his  mind, 

Was  shock'd  to  find 
Only  a  pair  of  shafts  without  a  horse. 

Out  scrambled  all  the  Misses  from  Miss  Joy's  I 
From  Prospect  House,  for  urchins  small  and  big^ 

Hearing  the  awful  noise, 

Out  rusli'd  a  flood  of  boys. 
Floating  a  man  in  black,  without  a  wig  ; — 
Some  carried  out  one  treasure,  some  another, — 
Some  caught  their  tops  and  taws  up  in  a  hurry,— 
Some  saved  Chambaud,  some  rescued  Lindley  Murray,- 
But  little  Tiddy  carried  his  big  brother  ! 


A  BLOW-UP. 

Sick  of  such  terrors,  , 

The  Tunbndge  folks  resolved  that  truth  should  dwell 
No  longer  secret  in  a  Tunbridge  Well, 
But  to  warn  Baker  of  his  dangerous  errors  ; 
Accordingly,  to  bring  the  point  to  pass, 
They  call'd  a  meeting  of  the  broken  glass, 
The  shatter'd  chimney-pots,  and  scatter'd  tiles, 

The  damage  of  each  part, 

And  pack'd  it  in  a  cart. 
Drawn  by  the  horse  that  ran  from  Mr  Jvliles  ; 
While  Doctor  Babblethorpe,  the  worthy  Rector, 


S05 


A  non  sequitur. 

And  Mr  Gammage,  cutler  to  George  Rex, 
And  some  ftw  more,  whose  names  would  only  vex, 
Went  as  a  deputation  to  the  Ex- 
Powder-proprietor  and  Mill-director. 


Now  Mr  Baker's  dwelling-house  had  pleased 

Along  with  mill-materials  to  roam, 

And  for  a  time  the  deputies  were  teased 

To  find  the  noisy  gentleman  at  home  ; 

At  last  they  found  him,  with  undamaged  skin. 

Safe  at  the  Tunbridiie  Arms — not  out — but  Inn. 


5C«  A  BLOW-UP. 

The  worthy  Rector,  with  uncommon  zeal. 
Soon  put  his  spoke  in  for  the  common  weal— 
A  grave  old  gentlemanly  kind  of  Urban, — 
The  piteous  tale  of  Jeremiah  moulded, 

And  then  unfolded, 
By  way  of  climax,  Mrs  Davy's  turban  ; 
He  told  how  auctioneering  Mr  Pidding 

Knock'd  down  a  lot  without  a  bidding, — 
How  Mr  Miles,  in  fright,  had  given  his  mare 

The  whip  she  wouldn't  bear, — 
At  Prospect  House,  how  Doctor  Oates,  not  Titus, 

Danced  like  Saint  Vitus, — 
And  Mr  Beak,  through  powder's  misbehaving, 

Cut  off  his  nose  whilst  shaving  ; — 
When  suddenly,  with  words  that  seem'd  like  swearing, 
Beyond  a  Licenser's  belief  or  bearing — 
Broke  in  the  stuttering,  sputtering  Mr  Gammage — 
"Who  is  to  pay  us,  sir" — he  argued  thus, 
"  For  loss  of  cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus — 
Cus-custom,  and  the  dam-dam-dam-dani-damage  ?" 

Now  many  a  person  had  been  fairly  puzzled 
By  such  assailants,  and  comi)letely  muzzled ; 
Baker,  however,  was  not  dash'd  with  ease. 
But  proved  he  practised  after  their  own  system, 
And  with  small  ceremony  soon  dismiss'd  'em, 
Putting  these  words  into  their  ears  like  fleas  : 
*•  If  I  do  have  a  blow,  well,  where's  the  oddity  ? 
I  merely  do  as  other  tradesmen  do, 

You,  sir, — and  you — and  you  ! 
I?m  only  puffing  off"  my  own  commodity  ! ^ 


Urging  the  Sail  of  your  own  Work. 


507 


THE   WOODEN  LEG* 

"Peregrine  and  Gauntlet  heard  the  sound  of  ihe  stump  ascending  the  wooden  ttaircats 
•rith  such  velocity,  that  they  at  first  mistook  it  for  the  application  of  drum-sticks  to  the  head 
cf  an  empty  barrel." — Peregrine  Pickle. 

EVER  since  the  year  1799,  I  have  had,  in  coachman  phrase,  an 
off  leg  and  a  near  one  ;  the  right  limb,  thanks  to  a  twelve- 
pounder,  lies  somewhere  at  Seringap  itam,  its  twin-brother  being  at 
this  moment  under  a  table  at  Brighton.  In  plain  English,  I  have  a 
wooden  leg.  Being  thus  deprived  of  half  of  the  implements  for  march- 
ing, I  equitably  retired,  on  half-pay,  from  a  marching  regiment,  and 
embarked  what  remained  of  my  body  for  the  land  of  its  nativity, 
literally  fulfilling  the  description  of  man,  "with  one  foot  on  sea  and 
one  on  shore,"  in  the  Shakesperean  song. 

A  great  deal  has  been  said  and  sung  of  our  wooden  walls  and 
hearts  of  oak,  but  legs  of  ditto  make  but  an  inglorious  figure  on  the 
ocean.  No  wrestler  from  Cornwall  or  Devonshire  ever  received  half 
so  many  fair  back-falls  as  I, — the  least  roll  of  the  vessel — and  the 
equinoctial  gales  were  in  full  blow  —  making  me  lose,  I  was  going 
to  say,  my  feet.  1  might  have  walked  in  a  dead  calm  ;  and  as  a 
soldier  accustomed  to  exercise,  and,  moreover,  a  foot-soldier,  and 
used  to  walking,  I  felt  a  great  inclination  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
deck,  but  a  general  protest  from  the  cabins  put  an  end  to  my  pro- 
menade. As  Lear  recommends,  my  wooden  hoof  ought  to  have  been 
"shod  with  felt." 

At  last  the  voyage  terminated,  and  in  my  eagerness  to  land,  I  got 
into  a  fishing-boat,  which  put  me  ashore  at  Dungeness.  Those  who 
have  enjoyed  a  ramble  over  its  extensive  shingle,  will  believe  that  I 
soon  obtained  abundance  of  exercise  in  walking  with  a  wooden  leg 
among  its  loose  pebbles  ;  in  fact,  when  I  arrived  at  Lydd,  I  was,  as 
the  cricketers  say,  "  stumped  out."  It  was  anything  but  one  of 
Foote's  farces. 

The  next  morning  saw  me  in  sight  of  home, — as  a  provincial  bard 
says — 

*'  But  when  home  gleams  upon  the  wanderer's  eye, 
Quicken  his  steps — he  almost  seems  to  fly." 

But  I  wish  he  had  seen  me  doing  my  last  half  mile  over  Swingfield 
Hill.  I  found  its  deep  sand  anything  but  a  quicksand,  in  spite  of  a 
distinct  glimpse  of  the  paternal  roof.  I  am  convinced,  when  "  fleet 
Camilla  scours  the  plains,"  she  does  not  do  it  with  sand.  At  last  I 
stood  at  the  lodge-gate,  which  opened,  and  let  me  into  a  long  avenue, 
the  path  of  which  had  been  newly  gravelled,  but  not  well  rolled  ; 
accordingly,  I  cut  out  considerable  work  for  myself  and  the  gardener, 
who,  as  he  watched  the  holes  I  picked  in  his  performance,  seemed  to 
look  on  my  advance  much  as  ApoUyon  did  on  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
By  way  of  relief,  I  got  upon  the  grass,  but  my  wooden  leg,  though  it 
Ivas  a  black-leg,  did  not  thrive  much  upon  the  turf.  Arrived  at  the 
•  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


5o8 


THE  WOODEN  LEG. 


house  door,  filial  anxiety  caused  me  to  forget  to  scrape  and  wipe,  and 
I  proceeded  to  make  a  fishy  pattern  of  soles  and  dabs  up  the  stair 
carpet.     The  goodwife  in  the  Scotch  song  says — 

"  His  very  foot  has  music  in't, 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair." 

If  there  was  any  music  in  mine,  it  was  in  the  stump,  which  played  a 
sort  of  "  Dead  March  in  Saul,"  up  to  the  landing-place,  where  the 
sound  and  sight  of  my  Rirnam  wood  coming  to  Dunsinane  threw  my 
poor  mother  into  a  Macbeth  fit  of  horror,  for  the  preparatory  letter 
which  should  have  broken  my  leg  to  her,  had  been  lost  on  its  passage. 
As  for  my  father,  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  his  transport,  for  I 
came  upon  him, 

"  As  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread  ; " 

and  Gabriel  or  Michael  would  not  have  escaped  a  volley  for  treading 
on  his  gouty  foot.  At  the  same  moment,  Margaret  and  Louisa,  with 
sisterly  impetuosity,  threw  themselves  on  my  neck,  and  not  being 
attentive  to  my  "  outplay  or  loose  leg,"  according  to  Sir  Thomas 
Parkyn's  "Instructions  for  Wrestling,"  the  result  was  a  "hanging 
tHppet."  "  A  hanging  trippet  is  when  you  put  your  toe  behind  your 
adversary's  heel,  on  the  same  side,  with  a  design  to  hook  his  leg  up 
forwards,  and  throw  him  on  his  back." 

The  reader  will  guess  my  satisfaction  when  night  came,  and  allowed 

me  to  rid  myself  of  my  unlucky 
limb.  Fatigued  with  my  walk 
through  dry  sand  and  wet  gravel, 
exhausted  by  excessive  emotion,  and, 
maybe,  a  little  flustered  by  dipping 
into  the  cup  of  welcome,  I  literally 
tumbled  into  bed,  and  was  soon 
dreaming  of  running  rices  and  leap- 
ing for  wagers,  gallopading,  waltzing, 
and  other  feats  of  a  biped,  when  I 
was  suddenly  aroused  by  shrill 
screams  of  "  Thieves  !  "  and  "  Mur- 
der !  "  with  a  more  hoarse  call  for 
"  Frank  !  Frank  ! "  There  were 
burglars,  in  fact,  in  the  house,  who 
were  packing  and  preparing  to  elope 
with  the  family  plate,  without  the 
consent  of  parents.  It  was  natural 
for  the  latter  to  call  a  son  and  a  sol- 
dier to  the  rescue,  but  son  or  soldier 
never  came  in  time  to  start  for  the 
plate  ;  not  that  I  wanted  zeal  or 
courage  or  arms,  but  I  wanted  that 
unlucky  limb,  and  I  groped  about  a  full  half  hour  in  the  dark,  before 
I  could  lay  my  hand  upon  my  leg. 

The  next  morning  I  took  a  solitary  stroll  before  breakfast  to  look 
at  the  estate  ;  but  during  my  absence  abroad,  some  exchanges  of  land 


"  Pegging  Two  for  his  Heels.' 


THE  GHOST.  509 

had  taken  place  with  our  neighbour,  Sir  Theophilus.  The  consequence 
was,  in  taking  my  wood  through  a  wood  of  his, — but  which  had 
formerly  been  our  own, — and  going  with  my  "best  leg  foremost,"  as 
a  man  in  my  predicament  always  does,  I  popped  it  into  a  man-trap. 
Thus  my  timber  failed  me  at  a  pinch,  when  it  might  really  have  stood 
my  friend.  Luckily  the  trap  was  one  of  the  humane  sort ; — but  it  was 
far  from  pleasant  to  stand  in  it  fur  two  hours  calling  out  for  Leg  Bail. 
I  could  give  many  more  instances  of  scrap  s,  besides  the  perpetual 
hobble  which  my  wooden  leg  brcaight  me  into,  but  I  will  mention  onlv 
one.  At  the  persuasion  of  my  friends,  a  few  years  ago  I  stood  for 
Rye,  but  the  electors,  perhaps,  thought  I  only  half  stood  for  it,  for 
they  gave  me  nothing  but  split  votes.  It  was  perhaps  as  well  that  I 
did  not  go  into  the  House,  for  with  two  such  odd  legs  I  could  never 
properly  have  "paired  off."  The  election  expenses,  however,  pressed 
heavily  on  my  pocket,  and  to  defray  them,  and  all  for  one  Wooden 
Leg,  I  had  to  cut  down  some  thousand  loads  of  timber. 


THE  GHOST. 

A  VERY  SERIOUS  BALLAD.* 
"Ill  be  your  second." — Listom. 

In  Middle  Row,  some  years  ago, 

There  lived  one  Mr  13rown  ; 
And  many  folks  consider'd  him 

The  stoutest  man  m  town. 

But  Brown  an'l  stout  will  both  wear  out, 

One  Friday  he  died  hard, 
And  left  a  widow'd  wife  to  mourn, 

At  twenty  pence  a  yard. 

Now  Widow  B.  in  two  short  months 
Thought  mourning  quite  a  tax, 

And  wibh'd,  like  Mr  Wilberforce, 
To  manumit  her  blacks. 

With  Mr  Street  she  soon  was  sweet ; 

The  thing  thus  came  about : 
She  ask'd  him  in  at  hnme,  and  then 

At  church  he  ask'd  her  out  I 

Assurance  such  as  this  the  man 

In  ashes  could  not  stand  ; 
So  like  a  Phcenix  he  rose  up 

Against  the  Hand  in  Hand. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


Sio 


THE  GHOST. 

One  dreary  night  the  angry  sprite 
Appear'd  before  her  view  ; 

It  came  a  little  after  one, 
But  she  was  after  two ! 

"O  Mrs  B.  !  O  Mrs  B. ! 

Are  these  your  sorrow's  deeds, 
Already  getting  up  a  flame 
To  burn  your  widow's  weeds  ? 

*'  It's  not  so  long  since  I  have  left 
For  aye  the  mortal  scene  ; 

My  Memory — like  Rogers's, 
Should  still  be  bound  in  green  ! 

"Yet  if  my  face  you  still  retrace 
I  almost  have  a  doubt — 

I'm  like  an  old  '  Forget- Me- Not/ 
With  all  the  leaves  torn  out  I 


Cock  of  the  Walk. 

"To  think  that  on  that  finger-joint 
Another  pledge  should  cling  ; 

O  Bess  !  upon  my  very  soul, 

It  struck  like  '  Knock  and  Ring.' 

"  A  ton  of  marble  on  my  breast 

Can't  hinder  my  return  ; 
Your  conduct,  Ma'am,  has  set  my  blood 

A-boiling  in  my  urn  ! 

"  Remember,  oh  !  remember,  how 
The  marriage  rite  did  run, — 

If  ever  we  one  flesh  should  be, 
'Tis  now — when  I  have  none  ! 


ODE  TO  MADAME  HENGLER. 

"And  you,  sir — once  a  bosom  frienCt — 

Of  perjured  faith  convict, 
As  ghostly  toe  can  give  no  blow, 

Consider  you  are  kick'd. 

"A  hollow  voice  is  all  I  have, 

But  this  I  tell  you  plain. 
Marry  come  up  ! — you  marry,  Ma'am, 

And  I'll  come  up  again." 

More  he  had  said,  but  chanticleer 
The  spritely  shade  did  shock 

With  sudden  crow,  and  off  he  went, 
Like  fowling-piece  at  cock  ! 


5" 


ODE  TO  MADAME  HENGLER, 

FIREWORK-MAKER  TO  VAUXHALL.* 

O  Mrs  Hengler  ! — Madame, — I  beg  pardon- 
Starry  Enchantress  of  the  Surrey  Garden  ! 


Fancy  Portrait :— Madame  Hengler. 

Accept  an  Ode  not  meant  as  any  scoff — 
The  Bard  were  bold  indeed  at  thee  to  quiz. 
Whose  squibs  are  far  more  popular  than  his, 
Whose  works  are  much  more  certain  to  go  off. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1 830. 


jia  ODE  TO  MADAME  HENGLER, 

Great  is  thy  fame,  but  not  a  silent  fame  ; 
With  many  a  bang  the  public  ear  it  courts; 
And  yet  thy  arrogance  we  never  blame, 
But  take  thy  merits  from  thy  own  reports. 
TLou  nast  indeed  the  most  indulgent  backers, 
We  make  no  doubting,  misbelieving  comments, 
Even  in  thy  most  bounceable  of  moments, 
But  lend  our  ears  implicit  to  thy  crackers  ! 
Strange  helps  to  thy  applause  too  are  not  missing. 
Thy  Rockets  raise  thee, 
And  Serpents  praise  thee, 
As  none  beside  are  ever  praised — by  hissing  t 
Mistress  of  Hydropyrics, 
Of  glittering  Pindarics,  Sapphics,  Lyrics, 
Professor  of  a  Fiery  Necromancy, 
Oddly  thou  charmest  the  politer  sorts 

With  midnight  sports. 
Partaking  very  much  oi flash  z'ni.  fancy  t 

What  thoughts  had  shaken  all 
In  olden  time  at  thy  nocturnal  revels, — 

Each  brimstone  ball 
They  would  have  deem'd  an  eyeball  of  the  Devil's  I 
But  now  thy  flaming  Meteors  cause  no  fright ; 
A  modern  Hubert  to  the  royal  ear 
Might  whisper  without  fear, 
**  My  Lord,  they  say  there  were  five  moons  to-night  1* 
Nor  would  it  raise  one  superstitious  notion 
To  hear  the  whole  description  fairly  out  : — 
**  One  fix'd — which  t'other  four  whirl'd  round  about 
With  wondrous  motion." 

Such  are  the  very  sights 
Thou  workest.  Queen  of  Fire,  on  earth  and  heaven, 
Between  the  hours  of  midnight  and  eleven, 
Turning  our  English  to  Arabian  Nights, 
With  blazing  mounts,  and  founts,  and  scorching  dragon% 

Blue  stars  and  white. 

And  blood-red  light, 
And  dazzling  Wheels  fit  for  Enchanters'  waggons. 
Thrice  lucky  woman  !  doing  things  that  be 
With  other  folks  past  benefit  of  parson  ; 
For  burning,  no  Burn's  Justice  falls  on  thee. 
Although  night  after  night  the  public  see 
Thy  Vauxhall  palaces  all  end  in  Arson  1 

Sure  thou  wast  never  born 
Like  old  Sir  Hugh,  with  water  in  thy  head. 

Nor  lectured  night  and  morn 
Of  sparks  .iiid  flames  to  have  an  awful  dreadf 
Allowed  by  a  prophetic  dam  and  sire 

To  play  with  fire. 


ODE  TO  MADAME  HENGLER.  5I| 

Oh,  didst  thou  never,  in  those  days  gone  by. 
Go  carrying  about — no  schoolboy  prouder — 
Instead  of  waxen  doll  a  little  Guy  ; 
Or  in  thy  pretty  pyrotechnic  vein, 
Up  the  parental  pigtail  lay  a  train. 
To  let  off  all  his  powder? 

Full  of  the  wildfire  of  thy  youth, 

Did'st  never,  in  plain  truth, 
Plant  whizzing  Flowers  in  thy  mother's  pots, 
Turning  the  garden  into  Powder  Plots  ? 

Or  give  the  cook,  to  fright  her, 
Thy  paper  sausages  well  stufTd  with  nitre  ? 
Nay,  wert  thou  never  guilty,  now,  of  dropping 
A  lighted  cracker  by  thy  sister's  Dear, 

So  that  she  could  not  hear 

The  question  he  was  popping? 

Go  on,  Madame  !     Go  on— be  bright  and  busy, 
While  hoax'd  Astronomers  look  up  and  stare 
From  tall  Observatories,  dumb  and  dizzy. 
To  see  a  Squib  in  Cassiopeia's  Chair  ! 
A  Serpent  wriggling  into  Charles's  Wain  1 
A  Roman  Candle  lighting  the  Great  Bear  1 
A  Rocket  tangled  in  Diana's  train, 
And  Crackers  stuck  in  Berenice's  Hair! 

There  is  a  King  of  Fire— Thou  shouldst  be  Quecol 
Methinks  a  good  connexion  might  come  from  it  ; 
Could'st  thou  not  make  him,  in  the  garden  scene. 
Set  out  per  Rocket  and  return  per  Comet ; 

Then  give  him  a  hot  treat 
Of  Pyrotechnicals  to  sit  and  sup. 
Lord  !  how  the  world  would  throng  to  see  him  ea^ 
He  swallowing  fire,  while  thou  dost  throw  it  up  I 

One  solitary  night — true  is  the  story — 
Watching  those  forms  that  Fancy  will  create 
Within  the  bright  confusion  of  the  grate, 
I  saw  a  dazzling  countenance  of  glory  ! 

O  Dei  gratias ! 

That  tiery  facias 
*Twas  thine,  Enchantress  of  the  Surrey  Grove  t 

And  ever  since  that  night, 

In  dark  and  bright, 
Thy  face  is  register' d  within  my  stove  I 

Long  may  that  starry  brow  enjoy  its  rays. 
May  no  untimely  blow  its  doom  forestall  ; 
But  when  old  age  prepares  the  friendly  pall, 
When  the  last  spark  of  all  thy  sparks  decays, 
Then  die  lamented  by  good  people  all, 

Like  Goldsmith^s  Madam  Blaize  I 

a  K 


514 


RHYME    AND    REASON* 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Comic  Annual. 

SIR, — In  one  of  your  Annuals  you  hnve  given  insertion  to  "  A  Plan 
for  Writing  Blank  Verse  in  Rhyme;"  but  as  I  have  seen  no 
regular  long  poem  constructed  on  its  principles,  I  suppose  the  scheme 
did  not  take  with  the  literary  world.  Under  these  circumstances  I 
feel  encouraged  to  bring  forward  a  no\'elty  of  my  own,  and  I  can  only 
regret  that  such  poets  as  -Chr.ucer  and  Cottle,  Spenser  and  Haylev, 
Milton  and  Pratt,  Pope  and  Pye,  Byron  and  Batterbee,  should  have 
died  before  it  was  invented. 

The  great  difficulty  in  verse  is  avowedly  the  rhyme.  Dean  Swift 
says  somewhere  in  his  letters,  "  that  a  rhyme  is  as  hard  to  find  with 
hmi  as  a  gumea," — and  we  all  know  that  guineas  are  proverbially 
scarce  among  poets.  The  merest  versifier  that  ever  attempted  a  V.ii- 
entine  must  have  met  with  this  Orson,  some  untameable  savage  s\  liable 
that  refused  to  chime  in  with  society.  For  instance,  what  poetical 
Fox-hunter — a  contributor  to  the  Sporting  Magazine — has  not  drawn 
all  the  covers  of  Beynard,  Cevnard,  Deynard,  Feynard,  Geynard,  Hey- 
nard,  Keynard,  Leynard,  Meynard,  Neynard,  Peynnrd,  Queynard,  to 
find  a  rhyme  for  Reynard  ?     The  spirit  of  the  times  is  decidedly  against 


Refusing  Tithe. 

Tithe  ;  and  I  know  of  no  tithe  more  oppressive  than  that  poetical  one, 
in  heroic  measure,  which  requires  that  every  tenth  syllable  shall  pay 
a  sound  in  kind.     How  often  the  Poet  goes  up  a  line,  only  to  be  stopped 

*  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


THE  DOUBLE  KJ^,r/,  515 

at  the  end  by  an  impracticable  rhyme,  lil^p  ?  Kr.l.  in  a  bfvrid  alley  !  1 
h.ive  an  ingenious  medical  friend,  who  m-ght  'jAve  been  an  eminent 
poet  by  this  time,  but  the  first  line  nj  wrote  enr'.f.i  in  ipecacuanha,  and, 
with  ail  his  pliy^ical  and  mental  power,  he  has  never  yet  been  able  to 
find  a  rhyme  for  it. 

The  plan  I  propose  aims  to  obviate  this  hardship.  My  system  is, 
to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns;  in  short,  to  try  at  rirst  what  words  will 
chime,  before  you  -go  farther  and  fr.re  worse  To  say  nothing  of  other 
advantages,  it  will  at  least  have  one  good  iffett, — and  that  is,  to  cor- 
rect the  erroneous  notion  of  the  would-be-poeis  and  poetesses  of  the 
present  day,  that  the  great  e}id  of  poetry  is  rhyme.  I  beg  leave  to 
present  a  specimen  of  verse,  which  proves  quite  the  reverse,  and  am. 
Sir,  Your  most  obedient  servant,  John  Dryden  Grubb. 


THE  DOUBLE  KNOCK, 

Rat-tat  it  v.ent  upon  the  lion's  chin  ; 
*'That  hat,  I  know  it  !"  cried  the  joyful  girl; 
"Summer's  it  is,  1  know  him  by  his  knock; 
Comers  like  him  are  welcome  as  the  day  ! 
Lizzy  !  go  down  and  open  the  street-door  ; 
Busy  I  am  to  any  one  but  hitn. 
Know  him  you  must — he  has  been  often  here; 
Show  him  upstairs,  and  tell  him  I'm  alone." 

Quickly  the  maid  went  tripping  down  the  stair; 
Thickly  the  heart  of  Rose  M.itilda  beat  ; 
"  Sure  he  has  brought  me  tickets  for  the  play — 
Drury— or  Covent  Garden — darling  man  ! 
Kemble  will  play — or  Kean,  who  makes  the  soul 
Tremble  in  Ricliard  or  the  frenzied  Moor  — 
Farren,  the  stay  and  prop  of  many  a  farce 
Barren  beside — or  Liston,  Laughter's  Child — 
Kelly  the  natural,  to  witness  whom 
Jelly  is  nothing  to  the  public's  jam — 
Cooper,  the  sensible— and  Walter  Knowles 
Super,  in  William  'I'ell,  now  rightly  told. 
Better — perchance,  from  Andrews,  brings  a  box, 
Letter  of  boxes  for  the  Italian  stage — • 
Brocard  !   Donzelli  !  Taglioni  !  Paul ! 
No  card, — thank  heaven — eni^ages  me  to  night  I 
Feathers,  of  course — no  turban,  and  no  toque- 
Weather's  against  it,  but  I'll  go  in  curls. 
Dearly  I  dote  on  white — my  satin  dress. 
Merely  one  night — it  won't  be  much  the  wors©— 
Cupid — the  New  Ballet  I  long  to  see  — 
Stupid  !  why  don't  she  go  and  ope  the  door  !* 

Glisten'd  her  eye  as  the  impatient  girl 
Listen'd,  low  bending  o'er  the  topmost  stair. 


5l€  A  FOX-HUNTER. 

Vainly,  alas  !  she  listens  and  she  bends, 
Pl.iinly  she  hears  this  question  and  reply 
"Axes  your  pardon,  sir,  but  what  d'ye  wi.nt?" 
*'  Taxes,"  says  he,  "  and  shall  not  call  again  !  '* 


A   FOX-HUNTER* 

IS  a  jumble  of  paradoxes.  He  sets  forth  clean  though  he  comes  out 
of  a  kennel,  and  returns  home  dirty.  He  cares  not  for  cards,  yet 
strives  to  be  always  with  the  pack.  He  loves  fencing,  but  without 
carte  or  tierce  ;  and  delights  in  a  steeplechase,  though  he  does  not 
follow  the  church.  He  is  anything  but  litigious,  yet  is  fond  of  a 
certain  suit,  and  retains  Scarlet.     He  keeps  a  running  account  with 


Barker's  Panorama. 

Horse,  Dog,  Fox,  and  Co.,  but  objects  to  a  check.  As  to  cards,  in 
choosing  a  pack  he  prefers  Hunt's.  In  Theatricals,  he  favours  Miss 
SomerviUe.  because  her  nnmesake  wrote  the  Chase,  though  he  never 
read  it.  He  is  no  great  Dancer,  though  he  is  fond  of  casting  of( 
twenty  couple  ;  and  no  great  Painter,  though  he  draws  covers,  and 
seeks  for  a  brush.  He  is  no  Musician,  and  yet  is  fond  of  five  bars. 
He  despises  Doctors,  yet  follows  a  course  of  bark.  He  professes  to 
•  Comic  Annual,  i8j3. 


A  FOX-HUNTER. 


517 


love  his  country,  but  is  perpetually  crossing  it.  He  is  fond  of  strong 
ale  and  beer,  yet  dislikes  any  pul-1.  He  is  good-tempered,  yet  so  far 
a  Tartar  as  to  prefer  a  saddle  of  Horse  to  a  saddle  of  Mutton.  He  is 
somewhat  rough  and  bearish  himself,  but  insists  on  good  breeding  in 
horses  and  dogs.  He  professes  the  Church  Catechism,  and  counte- 
nances heathen  dogmas,  by  naming  his  hounds  after  Jupiter  and  Juno, 
Mars  and  Dima.  He  cares  not  for  violets,  but  he  doats  on  a  good 
scent.  He  says  his  Wife  is  a  shrew,  but  objects  to  destroying  a  Vixen, 
In  Politics  he  inclines  to  Pitt,  and  runs  after  Fox.  He  is  no  milksop, 
but  he  loves  to  tally.  He  protects  Poultry,  and  preserves  Foxes.  He 
follows  but  one  business,  and  yet  has  many  pursuits.  He  pretends  to 
be  knowing,  but  a  dog  leads  him  by  the  nose.  He  is  as  honest  a 
fellow  as  need  be,  yet  his  neck  is  oftener  in  danger  than  a  thiefs.  He 
swears  he  can  clear  anything,  but  is  beaten  by  a  fog.  He  is  no  land- 
lord of  houses,  but  is  particular  about  fixtures.  He  studies  "  Summer- 
ing the  Hunter,"'  but  goes  Huntering  in  the  Winter.  He  esteems 
himself  prosperous,  and  is  always  going  to  the  d.  gs.  He  delights  in 
the  Hunter's  Stakes,  but  takes  care  not  to  stake  his  hunter.  He 
praises  discretion,  but  would  rather  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  than  a 
fox.  He  does  not  shine  at  a  human  conversazione,  but  is  great  among 
dogs  j^iving  tont;ue.  To  conclude,  he  runs  as  long  as  he  can,  and  then 
goes  to  earth,  and  his  Heir  is  in  at  his  death.  But  his  Heir  does  not 
stand  in  his  shoes,  for  he  never  wore  anything  but  boots. 


"  Stand  aid  Deliver.' 


5i8 


Fancy  Portrait :— "  I'd  be  a  Butterfly.' 


BAILEY  BALLADS* 

TO  anticipate  mistake,  the  above  title  refers  not  to  Thomns  Hnynes 
— or  F.  W.  N. — or  even  to  any  publislit-rs — but  the  origin, il  Old 
Bailey.  It  belongs  to  a  set  of  songs  composed  during  the  courtly 
leisure  of  wliat  is  technically  c;illed  a  Juryman  in  Waiting — that  is,  one 
of  a  corps  de  reserve^  held  in  readiness  to  fill  up  the  gaps  which  extra- 
ordinary mental  exertion — or  sedentary  habits — or  starvation,  may 
make  in  the  Council  of  Twelve.  This  wrong  box  it  was  once  my  fortune 
to  get  into.  On  the  5th  of  November,  at  the  6th  hour,  leaving  my  bed 
and  the  luxurious  perusal  of  Taylor  on  Early  Rising — 1  walked  from  a 
yellow  fog  into  a  black  one,  in  my  unwilling  way  to  the  New  Cnurt, 
which  sweet  herbs  even  could  not  sweeten,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
making  criminals  uncomfortable.  A  neighbour,  a  retired  sea-captain 
with  a  wooden  leg,  now  literally  a  jury-mast,  limped  with  me  trom 
Highbury  Terrace  on  the  same  hanging  errand — a  personihed  Halter. 
Our  legal  drill  corporal  was  Serjeant  Arabin,  and  when  our  muster-roll 
without  butter  was  over,  before  breakfast,  the  uninitiated  can  form  no 
idea  of  the  ludicrousness  of  the  excuses  of  the  would-be  Nonjurors, — ■ 
aggravated  by  the  solemnity  of  a  previous  oath,  the  delivery  from  a 
witness-box  like  a  pulpit,  and  the  professional  gravity  of  the  Court. 
One  v/eakly  old  gentleman  had  been  ordered  by  his  physician  to  eat 
little,  but  often,  and  apprehended  even  fatal  consequences  from  being 
lo^i^ed  up  with  an  obstinate  eleven  ;  another  conscientious  demurrer 
*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


BAILEY  BAIL  ADS. 


519 


desired  time  to  make  himself  i/iaster  of  his  duties,  by  consulting 
Jonathan  Wild,  Vidocq,  Hardy  Vaux,  and  Lazarillo  de  Tormes.  But 
the  number  of  deaf  men  who  objected  the  hardness  of  their  hearin;^' 
criminal  cases  was  beyond  belief.  The  publishers  of  "  Curtis  on  the 
Ear"  and  "Wright  on  the  Ear" — (two  popular  surgical  works,  though 
rather  suggestive  of  Pugilism) — ought  to  have  steniorian  agents  in  th  .t 
Court.  Defective  on  one  side  myself,  I  was  literally  ashamed  to 
strike  up  smgly  in  such  a  chorus  of  muffled  double  drums,  and  tacitly 
suffered  my  ears  to  be  boxed  with  a  common  Jury.  I  heard,  on  the 
right  hand,  a  Judge's  charge — an  arraignment  and  evidence  to  matcn, 
with  great  dexterity,  but  failing  to  catch  the  defence  from  tlie  left 
hand,  refused  naturally  to  concur  in  any  sinister  verdict.  The  learned 
Jierjeant,  I  presume,  as  I  was  only  half  deaf,  only  half  discharged 
me,—  commuting  me  to  the  relay-box,  as  a  Juror  in  Waiting,  —  and 
from  which  I  was  relieved  only  by  his  successor,  Sir  Thomas  Denman, 
and  to  justify  my  dulness,  I  made  even  his  stupendous  voice  to  repeat 
my  dismissal  twice  over  ! 

It  was  during  this  compelled  attendance  that  the  project  struck  me 
of  a  Series  of  Lays  of  Larceny,  combining  Sin  and  Sentiment  in  the 
melodramatic  mixture  which  is  so  congenial  to  the  cholera-morbid 
sensibility  of  the  present  age  and  stage.  The  following  are  merelv 
specimens,  but  a  hint  from  the  Powers  that  be, — in  the  Strand,—  will 
promptly  produce  a  handsome  volume  of  the  remainder,  with  a  grate- 
ful Didication  to  the  learned  Serjeant. 


'  Descend,  ye  Nine  I " 


S90  BAILEY  BALLADS* 

No.  I. 

LINES  TO  MARY. 

(at  no.  I  NEWGATE,  FAVOURED  BY  MR  WONTNUU) 

0  Mary,  I  believed  you  true, 
And  I  was  blest  in  so  believing ; 
But  till  this  hour  I  never  knew — 
That  you  were  taken  up  for  thieving  1 

Oh  !  when  I  snatch'd  a  tender  kiss, 
Or  some  such  trifle  when  I  courted, 
You  said,  indeed,  that  love  was  bliss, 
But  never  own'd  you  were  transported  I 

But  then,  to  gaze  on  that  fair  face, 
It  would  have  been  an  unfair  feeling 
To  dream  that  you  had  pilfer'd  lace — 
And  Flints  had  suffer'd  from  your  stealing  1 

Or,  when  my  suit  I  first  preferr'd, ' 

To  bring  your  coldness  to  repentance, 

Before  I  hammer'd  out  a  word, 

How  could  I  dream  you'd  heard  a  sentence  1 

Or  when,  with  all  the  warmth  of  youth, 

1  strove  to  prove  fny  love  no  fiction, 
How  could  I  guess  I  urged  a  truth 
On  one  already  past  conviction  ? 

How  could  I  dream  that  ivory  part. 

Your  hand — where  I  have  look'd  and  lingered, 

Although  it  stole  away  my  heart, 

Had  been  held  up  as  one  light-finger'd  ? 

In  melting  verse  your  charms  I  drew, 
The  charms  in  which  my  muse  delighted— 
Alas  !  the  lay,  I  thought  was  new, 
Spoke  only  what  had  been  indicted! 

Oh  !  when  that  form,  a  lovely  one. 
Hung  on  the  neck  its  arms  had  flown  tO^ 
I  little  thought  that  you  had  run 
A  chance  of  hanging  on  your  own  too. 

You  said  you  pick'd  me  from  the  world— 
My  vanity  it  now  must  shock  it — 
And  down  at  once  mv  pride  is  hurl'd, — 
You've  pick'd  me — and  you've  pick'd  a  pocket  f 


BAILEY  BALLADS. 

Oh  !  when  our  love  had  got  so  far, 

The  banns  were  read  by  Dr  Daly, 
Who  asked  if  there  was  any  bar— 
Why  did  not  some  one  shout,  "  Old  Bailey?" 

But  when  you  robed  your  flesh  and  bones 
In  that  pure  white  that  angel  garb  is, 
Who  could  have  thought  you,  Mary  Jones, 
Among  the  Joans  that  link  with  Darbies? 

And  when  the  parson  came  to  say 

My  goods  were  yours,  if  I  had  got  any, 

And  you  should  honour  and  obey, 

Who  could  have  thought—"  O  Bay  of  Botany  I' 

But,  oh  I  the  worst  of  all  your  slips 
I  did  not  till  this  day  discover — 
That  down  in  Deptford's  prison-ships, 
O  Mary  !  you've  a  hulking  lover  ! 


521 


"'Twere  well  if  we  had  never  meL" 


No.  II. 

"Love,  with  a  witness  I  " 

He  has  shaved  off  his  whiskers  and  blacken'd  his  brows, 
Wears  a  patch  and  a  wig  of  false  hair, — 
But  it's  him— oh,  it's  hun  !— we  exchanged  lovers'  vows 
When  I  lived  up  in  Cavendish  Square. 

He  had  beautiful  eyes,  and  his  lips  were  the  same, 
And  his  voice  was  as  soft  as  a  flute — 
Like  a  Lord  or  a  Marquis  he  look'd,  when  he  came 
To  make  love  in  his  master's  best  suit. 


i22  BAILEY  BALLADS. 

If  I  lived  for  a  thousand  lon<j  years  from  my  birth, 
I  shall  never  forget  wliat  he  told — 
How  he  loved  me  beyond  the  rich  women  of  earth, 
With  their  jewels  and  silver  and  gold  ! 

When  he  kiss'd  me,  and  bade  me  adieu  with  a  sigh, 
By  the  liglit  of  the  sweetest  of  moons  ; 
Oh,  how  little  I  dreamt  1  was  bidding  good-bye 
To  my  Missis's  teapot  and  spoons  ! 


No.  III. 

"  I'd  be  a  Parody." — Bailey. 

We  met — 'twas  in  a  mob — and  I  thought  he  had  done  me  : 
1  felt — I  could  not  feel — for  no  watch  was  upon  me; 
He  r;m — the  night  was  cold — and  his  pace  was  unalter'd, 
I  too  long'd  much  to  pelt — but  my  small-honed  leg  falter'd. 
I  wore  my  br;ind-nevv  boots — and  unrivall'd  their  brightness  J 
They  fit  me  to  a  hair — -'how  I  hated  their  tightness  ! 
I  call'd,  but  no  one  came,  and  my  stride  had  a  tether — 
Oh,  tliou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  leather  ! 

And  once  again  we  met — and  an  old  pal  was  near  him  ; 

He  swore,  a  something  low — but  'twas  no  use  to  fear  him  ; 

I  seized  upon  his  arm — he  was  mine  and  mine  only, 

And  stepped — as  he  deserved — to  cells  wretc:hed  and  lonely  : 

And  there  he  will  be  tried — but  I  shall  ne'er  receive  her, 

Tlie  watch  that  went  too  sure  for  an  artful  deceiver. 

Tiie  world  may  think  me  gay, — heart  and  feet  ache  together— 

Oh,  thou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this  anguish,  my  leather. 


Stop  him  ( 


523 


The  Source  of  the  Niger. 


LETTER 


FROM  A  PARISH  CLERK  IN  BARRADOES  TO  ONE  IN  HAMPSHIRE, 
WITH  AN  ENCLOSURE.* 

"Thou  mayest  conceive,  O  ri.ader,  with  what  concern  I  perceived  the  eyes  of  the  co^ 
greg.aion  fixed  upon  mc." — lilemoirs  of  i'.  P. 

MY  DKAR  JEDIDIAH,— Here  I  am  safe  and  sound— well  in 
bod\,  and  in  fine  voice  for  my  callinj; — though  thousands  and 
thousands  of  miles,  1  may  say,  from  the  old  livinf;^,  Threap-cum- 
Toddle.  Liiile  did  1  think  to  be  ever  ^ivini^roui  the  Psalms  across  the 
Atlantic,  or  to  be  walkin;^  in  the  streets  of  Barbadoes,  surrounded  by 
Black  imoors,  big  and  little  :  some  cr\  in.;  after  me,  "  There  him  go  - 
look  at  Mass. I  Amen  !"  Poor  African  wretches  !  I  do  hope,  by  mv 
Lord  Bishup's  assistance,  to  instruct  many  of  them,  and  to  teach  them 
to  have  more  res[)ect  for  ecclesiastic  dignitaries. 

Through  a  ludicrous  clerical  mischmce,  not  fit  for  me  to  mention, 
we  have  preached  but  once  since  our  arrival.  O  Jedidiah  !  how 
different  from  the  row  of  comely,  sleek,  and  ruddy,  plain  English  faceS; 
that  used  to  confront  me  in  the  Churchwarden's  pew,  at  the  old  service 
in  Hants, — Air  Perryman's  clean,  shining,  bald  head  ,  Mr  Truman's 
*  Comic  Annual,  183 1, 


524 


A  LETTER. 


respectable  powdered,  and  Mr  Cutlet's  comely  and  well-combed  caxonf 
Here,  such  a  set  of  grinning  sooty  faces,  that  if  I  had  been  in  any 
other  place,  I  might  have  fancied  myself  at  a  meeting  of  Master 
Chimney-sweeps  on  May-Day.  You  know,  Jedidiah,  how  strange 
thoughts  and  things  will  haunt  the  mind,  in  spite  of  one's  self,  at  times 
the  least  appropriate  : — the  line  that  follows  "  The  rose  is  red,  the 
violet's  blue,"  in  the  old  Valenime,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  came  across 
me  I  know  not  how  often.  Then,  after  service,  no  sittmg  on  a  tomb- 
Stone  for  a  cheerful  bit  of  chat  with  a  nei-hl^our — no  invitation  to 

dinner  from  the  worshipful 
Churchwardens.  The  jab- 
ber of  these  Niggers  is  so 
outlandish  or  unintelli- 
gible, I  can  hardly  say  I 
am  on  speaking  terms  with 
any  of  our  parishioners 
exci'pt  Mr  Pompey,  the 
Governor's  black,  whose 
trips  to  England  have  made 
his  English  not  quite  so 
full  of  Greek  as  the  others. 
There  is  one  thing,  how- 
ever, that  is  so  great  a  dis- 
appointment of  my  hopes 
and  enjoyments,  that  I 
think,  if  I  had  foreseen  it, 
I  should  not  have  come 
out,  even  at  the  Bishop's 
requt  St.  The  song  in  the 
pl.iybook  says,  you  know, 
"While  ail  Barbadoes  bells 
do  ring  !  " — but  alas  !  Jedi- 
diah, there  is  not  a  ring  of  bells  in  the  whole  island!  You,  who  re- 
member my  fondness  for  that  melodious  pastime,  indeed  I  mav  say  my 
passion,  for  a  Grandsire  Peel  of  Triple  Bob-Majors  truly  pulled,  and 
the  changes  called  by  myself,  as  when  I  belonged  to  the  Great  Tom 
Society  of  Hampshire  Youths, — may  conceive  my  regret  that,  instead 
of  coming  here,  I  did  not  go  out  to  Swan  River — I  am  told  they  have 
a  Peel  there. 

I  shall  write  a  longer  letter  by  the  Nestor,  Bird,  which  is  the  next 
ship.  This  comes  by  the  Lively,  Kidd. — only  to  inform  you  that  I 
arrived  here  safe  and  well.  Pray  communicate  the  same,  with  my  love 
and  duty,  to  mv  dear  parents  and  relaiinns,  not  forgetting  Deborah 
and  Darius  at  Porkin.!ton,  and  Uriah  at  Pigstead.  The  same  to  Mrs 
Pugh,  the  opener, — Mr  Sexton,  and  the  rest  of  my  clerical  friends,.  I 
have  no  commissions  at  presentfexcept  to  beg  that  you  w  ill  deliver  the 
enclosed,  which  1  have  written  at  Mr  Pompev's  dictation,  to  his  old 
black  fellow-servant,  at  Number  45  Portland  Place.  Ask  for  ^^ga- 
memnon  down  the  area.  If  an  o|)poitunity  should  likewise  offer  of 
mentioning  in  an\'  quarter  that  might  reach  Administration,  the  desti- 
tute state  of  our  llarbanan  ste.  pies  and  bfUViesi,  pray  don't  ocnit;  and 


Black  Barberism. 


A  LETTER. 


525 


if,  in  the  menntime,  you  could  send  out  even  a  set  of  small  handbells, 
it  might  prove  a  parochial  acquisition,  as  well  as  to  me. — D\*ar  Jedi- 
diah,  Your  faithful  friend  and  fellow-clerk,        Habakkuk  Crumpe. 

P.S. — I  send  Pompey's  letter  open,  for  you  to  read.  You  will  see 
what  a  strange  herd  of  black  cattle  I  am  among. 

[the  enclosure.] 

I  sav,  Aggy  ! — You  remember  me  ?  Very  well.  R.unaway  Pompey, 
somebody  else.  Me  Governor's  Pompey.  You  remember?  Me 
carry  out  Governor's  piccaninny  a  walk.  Very  well.  Massa  Amen 
and  me  write  this  to  say  the  news.  Barbadoes  all  bustle.  Nigger- 
mans  do  nothing  but  talkee  talkee.  \^Poinpev's  ri^ht,  Jedidiah.']  The 
Bishop  is  come.  Missis  Bishop.  Miss  Bishop — all  the  Bishops. 
Very  well.  The  Bishop  come  in  one  ship,  and  him  wigs  come  out  in 
other  ship.  Bishop  come  one,  two,  three,  weeks  first,  [//'j-  too  true, 
yedidiah.^  Him  say  no  wig,  no  Bishop.  Massa  Amen,  you  remem- 
ber, say  so  too.  Very  well.  Massa  Amen  ask  me  everything  about 
nigger-man,  where  him  baptizes  in  a  water.  [So  I  did.\  Me  tell  him 
in  the  sea,  in  the  river,  any  wheres  abouts.     You  remember.     Massa 


By  gum,  him  turban  afire." 


Amen  ask  at  me  again,  who  'ficiates.  Me  tell  him  de  Cayman. 
\What  man,  Jedidiah,  could  lie  mean  ?'\  Very  well.  The  day  before 
the  other  day  Bishop  come  to  dinner  with  Governor  and  Governess, 
up  at  the  Big  House.  You  remember, —Missis  Bishop  too.  Missis 
Bishop  set  him  turban  afire  at  a  candle,  and  me  put  him  out.     [  With 


526 


OUR  VILLa^^F. 


/tiaTi 


a  keVle  of  scalding  water,  Jedidiah.}     P^jir.pcy  g-.f  t.M.m^  / 
Very  well. 

I  sav,  Aggy  1 — You  know  your  Catechism  ?  Massa  Amen  ask  nim 
at  me  and  my  wife,  Black  Juno,  sometimes.  Vou  remember.  Massa 
Amen  sav,  You  give  up  a  Uevil?  very  well.  Then  him  say,  Yvu  give 
up  all  work?  very  well.     Then  hin;  say  again,  Black  Juno,  you  give 

up  your  Potnpeys  and 
vanities?  Bhick  Juno 
shake  her  head,  and  say 
no.  Massa  Amen  say 
You  must,  and  then  my 
wife  cry  ever  so  much. 
[//V  a  fact,  Jedidiah,  the 
black  female  made  t/iis 
ridiculous  mistake.^ 

Very  well.  Governor 
come  to  you  in  three 
months  to  see  the  King. 
Pompey  too.  You  re- 
member. Come  for  me 
to  Blackwall.  Me  bring 
you  some  of  Governor's 
rum.  Black  Juno  say, 
Tell  Massa  Agamemnon,  he  must  send  some  fashions,  sometimes. 
You  remember?  Black  Juno  very  smart.  Him  wish  for  a  Bell  As- 
sembly. [Jedidiahf  so  do  /.]  You  send  him  out,  you  remember? 
Verv  well. 

Massa  Amen  say  write  no  more  now.  1  say,  O  pray  one  little  word 
more  for  Agamemnon's  wife.  Give  him  good  kiss  from  Pompey. 
{Jedidiah,  what  a  heathenish  message!]  Black  Diana  a  kiss  too. 
You  remember?     Very  well.     No  more. 


Ship  Letters. 


OUR   VILLAGE* 

"  Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain." — Goldsmith. 

I  HAVE  a  great  anxiety  to  become  a  topographer,  and  I  do  not 
know  that  I  can  make  an  easier  commencement  of  the  character, 
than  by  attempting  a  description  of  our  village.  It  will  be  found,  as 
my  friend  the  landlord  over  the  way  says,  that  "  things  are  drawn 
mild." 

1  live  opposite  the  Green  Man.  I  know  that  to  be  the  sign,  in  spite 
of  the  picture,  because  I  am  told  of  the  fact  in  large  gilt  letters,  in 
three  several  places.  The  whole-length  portrait  of  ^'- rhomme  vert* 
is  rather  imposing.  He  stands  plump  before  you,  in  a  sort  of  wrest- 
ling attitude,  the  legs  standing  distinctly  apart,  in  a  brace  of  decided 
boots,  with  dun  tops,  joined  to  a  pair  of  creole-coloured  leather  breeches. 

*  Con'iic  Annual,  1833. 


OUR  VILLAGE. 


527 


The  rest  of  his  dress  is  peculiar  ;  the  cont,  a  two-flapper,  green  and 
brown,  or,  as  they  sav  at  the  tap,  half-and-halj  ;  n  cocked  hat  on  tl^e 
half-cock  ;  a  short  belt  crossing  the  breast  like  a  fl  it  gas-pipe.  The 
one  hand  stuck  on  the  greeny-brown  hip  of  my  friend,  in  the  other  a 
gun  with  a  barrel  like  an  entire  butt,  and  the  butt  like  a  brewer's 
whole  stock.  On  one  side,  looking  up  nt  the  vanished  visa.ize  of  his 
master,  is  all  that  remains  of  a  liver-and-\^  hite  pointer— seeming  now 
to  be  some  old  dog  from  India,  for  his  white  complexion  is  turned 
yellow,  and  his  livtr  is  more  than  half  gone  ! 

The  inn  is  really  a  vtry  quiet,  cozy,  comfortable  inn,  though  the 
landlord  announces  a  fact  in  larger  letters,  methinks,  than  his  informa- 
tion warrants,  viz.,  that  he  is  "  Lice?ised  >o  deal  in  Foreigtt  Wi)ies  and 
spirits"  All  innkeepers,  I  trust,  Hre  so  licensed  ;  there  is  no  occasion 
to  make  so  brazen  a  brag  of  this  sinecure  permit. 


I  had  written  thus  far,  when  the  tarnished  gold  letters  of  the  Green 
Man  seemed  to  be  suddenly  re-gilt  ;  and  on  looking  upwards,  I  per- 
ceived that  a  sort  of  skylight  had  been  ofiened  in  the  clouds,  jjiving 
entrance  to  a  bright  gleam  of  sunshine,  which  glowed  with  remarkable 
effect  on  a  yellow  postchaise  in  the  stable-yard,  and  brought  the  ducks 
out  beautifully  white  from  the  black  horsepond.  Tempted  by  the 
appearance  of  the  weather,  I  put  down  my  pen,  and  strolled  out  for  a 


The  Lady  of  "Our  Village." 

quarter  of  an  hour  before  dinner,  to  inhale  that  air,  without  which,  like 
the  chameleon,  1  cannot  feed.  On  my  return,  I  found,  with  some  sur- 
prise, that  my  papers  were  a  good  deal  discomposed;  but  before  I 
had  time  for  much  wonder,  my  landlady  entered  with  one  of  her  most 


528  OUR  VILLAGE. 

obliging  curtseys,  and  observed  that  she  had  seen  me  writing  in  the 

morning,  and  it  had  occurred  to  her,  by  chance,  that  I  might  by  pos- 
sibihty  have  been  writing  a  description  of  the  village.  I  told  her  that 
I  had  actually  been  engaged  on  that  very  subject.  **  If  that  is  the 
case,  of  course,  sir,  you  would  begin,  no  doubt,  about  the  Green  Man, 
being  so  close  by  ;  and  I  daresay  you  vi'ould  say  something  about 
the  siga,  and  the  Green  Man  with  his  top-boots,  and  his  gun,  and  his 
Indian  liver-and-white  pointer,  though  his  white  to  be  sure  is  turned 
yellow,  and  his  liver  is  more  than  half  gone."  "  You  are  perfectly  right, 
Mrs  Ledger,"  I  replied,  "  and  in  one  part  of  the  description  I  think  I 
have  used  almost  your  own  very  words."  "  Well,  that  is  curious,  sir," 
exclaimed  Mrs  L.,  and  physically,  not  arithmetically,  casting  up  all 
her  hands  and  eyes.  "  Moreover,  what  I  mean  to  say  is  this  ;  and  I 
only  say  that  to  save  trouble.  There's  a  young  man  lodges  at  the 
greengrocer's  over  the  way,  who  has  writ  an  account  of  the  village 
already  to  your  hand.  The  people  about  the  place  call  him  the  Poet, 
but,  anyhow,  he  studies  a  good  deal,  and  writes  beautiful ;  and,  as  I 
said  before,  has  made  the  whole  village  out  of  his  own  head.  Now, 
it  might  save  trouble,  sir,  if  you  was  to  write  it  out,  and  I  am  sure  I 
have  a  copy,  that,  as  far  ns  the  loan  goes,  is  at  your  service,  sir." 
My  curiosity  induced  me  to  take  the  offer  ;  and  as  the  poem  really 
forestalled  what  I  had  to  say  of  the  Hamlet,  I  took  my  landlady's 
advice  and  transcribed  it, — and  here  it  is. 


OUR  VILLAGE.— BY  A  VILLAGER. 

Our  village,  that's  to  say,  not  Miss  Mitford's  village,  but  our  village 

of  Bullock  Smithy, 
Is  come  into  by  an  avenue  of  trees,  three  oak  pollards,  two  elders,  and 

a  withy  ; 
And  in  the  middle  there's  a  green  of  about  not  exceeding  an  acre  and 

a  half ; 
It's  common  to  all,  and  fed  off  by  nineteen  cows,  six  ponies,  three 

horses,  five  asses,  two  foals,  seven  pigs,  and  a  calf ! 
Besides  a  pond  in  the  middle,  as  is  held  by  a  similar  sort  of  common- 
law  lease, 
And  contains  twenty  ducks,  six  drakes,  three  ganders,  two  dead  dogs, 

four  drown'd  kittens,  and  twelve  geese. 
Of  course  the  green's  cropt  very  close,  and  does  famous  for  bowling 

when  the  little  village-boys  play  at  cricket ; 
Only  some  horse,  or  pig,  or  cow,  or  great  jackass,  is  sure  to  come  and 

stand  right  before  the  wicket. 
There's  fifty-five  private  houses,  let  alone  barns,  and  workshops,  and 

pig-sties,  and  poultry  huts,  and  suchlike  sheds  ; 
With  plenty  of  public-houses — two  Foxes,  one  Green  Man,  three  Bunch 

of  Grapes,  one  Crown,  and  six  King's  Heads. 
The  Green  Man  is  reckon'd  the  best,  as  the  only  one  that  for  love  or 

money  can  raise 
A  postilion,  a  blue-jacket,  two  deplorable  lame  white  horses,  »nd  a 

ramshackled  "  neat  postchaise." 


OUR  VILLAGE,  519 

There's  one  parish  church  for  all  the  people,  whatsoever  may  be  their 

ranks  in  life  or  their  degrees, 
Except   one  very   damp,  small,  dark,  freezing  cold,  little  Methodist 

Chapel  of  Ease  ; 
And  close  by  the  churchyard  there's  a  stone-mason's  yard,  that  when 

the  time  is  seasonable 
Will  furnish  with  afflictions  sore  and  marble  urns  and  cherubims  very 

low  and  reasonable. 
There's  a  cage,  comfortable  enough  ;  I've  been  in  it  with  Old  Jack 

Jeffrey  and  Tom  Pike  ; 
For  the  Green  Man  next  door  will  send  you  in  ale,  gin,  or  anything 

else  you  like. 
I  can't  speak  of  the  stocks,  as  nothing  remains  of  them  but  the  upright 

post ; 
But  the  pound  is  kept  in  repairs  for  the  sake  of  Cob's  horse,  as  is 

always  tliere  ahnost. 
There's  a  smithy  of  course,  where  that  queer  sort  of  a  chap  in  his  way, 

Old  Joe  Bradley, 
Perpetually  hammers  and  stammers,  for  he  stutters  and  shoes  horses 

very  badly. 
There's  a  shop  of  all  sorts,  that  sells  everything,  kept  by  the  widow 

of  Mr  Task  ; 
But  when  you  go  there,  it's  ten  to  one  she's  out  of  everything  you  ask. 
You'll  know  her  house  by  the  swarm  of  boys,  like  flies,  about  the  old 

sugary  cask  : 
There  are  six  empty  houses,  and  not  so  well  paper'd  inside  as  out, 
For  bill-stickers  won't  beware,  but  sticks  notices  of  sales  and  election 

placards  all  about. 
That's  the  Doctor's  with  a  green  door,  where  the  garden  pots  in  the 

windows  are  seen — 
A  weakly  monthly  rose  that  don't  blow,  and  a  dead  geranium,  and  a 

tea-plant  with  five  black  leaves  and  one  green. 
As  for  hollyoaks  at  the  cottage  doors,  and  honeysuckles  and  jasmines, 

you  may  go  and  whistle  ; 
But  the  tailor's  front  garden  grows  two  cabbages,  a  dock,  a  ha'porth 

of  pennyroyal,  two  dandelions,  and  a  thistle. 
There  are  three  small  orchards — Mr  Busby's  the  schoolmaster's  is  the 

chief — 
With  two  pear-trees  that  don't  bear  ;  one  plum  and  an  apple,  that 

every  year  is  stripped  by  a  thief. 
There's  another  small  day-school  too,  kept  by  the  respectable  Mrs 

Gaby, 
A  select  establishment,  for  six  little  boys  and  one  big,  and  four  little 

girls  and  a  baby  ; 
There's  a  rectory,  with  pointed  gables  and  strange  odd  chimneys  that 

never  smokes, 
For  the  rector  don't  live  on  his  living  like  other  Christian  sort  of  folks  ; 
There's  a  barber's,  once  a-week  well  filled  with  rough  black-bearded 

shock-headed  churls, 
And  a  window  with  two  feminine  men's  heads,  and  two  masculine 

ladies  in  false  curls  ; 

a  I. 


J30  THE  SCRAPE-BOOK. 

There's  a  butcher's,  and  a  carpenter's,  and  a  plumber's,  and  a  small 

greengrocer's,  and  a  baker. 
But  he  won't  bake  on  a  Sunday  ;  and  there's  a  sexton  that's  a  coal- 
merchant  besides,  and  an  undertaker  ; 
And  a  toyshop,  but  not  a  whole  one,  for  a  village  can't  compare  with 

the  London  shops  ; 
One  window  sells  drums,  dolls,  kites,  carts,  bats,  Clout's  balls,  and 

the  other  sells  malt  and  hops. 
And  Mrs  Brown,  in  domestic  economy  not  to  be  a  bit  behind  hef 

betters, 
Lets  her  house  to  a  milliner,  a  watchmaker,  a  rat-catcher,  a  cobbler, 

lives  in  it  herself,  and  it's  the  post-office  for  letters. 
Now  I've  gone  through  all  the  village — ay,  from  end  to  end,  save  and 

except  one  more  house, 
But  I  haven't  come  to  that — and  I  hope  I  never  shall — and  that's  the 

Village  Poorhouse  1 


THE  SCRAPE-BOO K* 

'•Luck's  all  1* 

SOME  men  seem  born  to  be  lucky.  Happier  than  kings,  Fortune's 
wheel  has  for  them  no  revolutions.  Whatever  they  touch  turns  to 
gold, — their  path  is  paved  with  the  philosopher's  stone.  At  games  of 
chance  they  have  no  chance  ;  but  what  is  better,  a  certainty.  They 
hold  four  suits  of  trumps.  They  get  windfalls,  without  a  breath 
stirring — as  legacies.  Prizes  turn  up  for  them  in  lotteries.  On  the 
turf,  their  horse — an  outsider — always  wins.  They  enjoy  a  whole 
season  of  benefits.  At  the  very  worse,  in  trying  to  drown  themselves, 
they  dive  on  some  treasure  undiscovered  since  the  Spanish  Armada  ; 
or  tie  their  halter  to  a  hook,  that  unseals  a  hoard  in  the  ceiling.  That's 
their  luck. 

There  is  another  kind  of  fortune,  called  ill-luck  j  so  ill,  that  you 
hope  it  will  die  ; — but  it  don't.     That's  my  luck. 

Other  people  keep  scrap-books  ;  but  I,  a  scrape-book.  It  is  theirs 
to  insert  bon-mots,  riddles,  anecdotes,  caricatures,  facetiae  of  all  kinds ; 
mine  to  record  mischances,  failures,  accidents,  disappointments  ;  in 
short,  as  the  betters  say,  I  have  always  a  bad  book.  Witness  a  few 
extracts,  bitter  as  extract  of  bark. 

April  1st.  Married  on  this  day  :  in  the  first  week  of  the  honeymoon, 
stumbled  over  my  father-in-law's  beehives  !  He  has  252  bees  ;  thanks 
to  me,  he  is  now  able  to  check  them.  Some  of  the  insects,  having  an 
account  against  me,  preferred  to  settle  on  my  calf.  Others  swarmed  on 
my  hands.  My  bald  head  seemed  a  perfect  humming-top  !  Two 
hundred  and  fifty-two  stings — it  should  be  "  stings — and  arrows  of 
outrageous  fortune!"  But  that's  my  luck.  Rushed  bee-blind  into 
the  horsepond,  and  torn  out  by  Tiger,  the  house-dog.  Sts^gered 
incontinent  into  the  pigsty,  and  collared  by  the  sow — sus.  per  roll — 
for  kicking  her  sucklings  ;  recommended  oil  for  my  wounds,  ajici  none 

,  *  Comic  Annual,  I  S3 1. 


THE  SCRAPE-BOOK. 


531 


but  lamp  ditto  in  the  house ;  relieved  of  the  stings  at  last — what  luck  I 
— by  252  operations. 
9th.  Give  my  adored  Belinda  a  black  eye,  in  the  open  street,  aiming 


An  Unfortunate  Bee-ing. 


at  a  lad  who  attempted  to  snatch  her  reticule.  Belinda's  part  taken 
by  a  big  rascal,  as  deaf  as  a  post,  who  wanted  to  fight  me  "  for  striking 
a  woman."     My  luck  again. 

1 2th.  Purch<ised  a  mare,  warranted  so  gentle  that  a  lady  might 
ride  her,  and,  indeed,  no  animal  could  be  quieter,  except  the  leather 
one,  formerly  in  the  Show-room,  at  Exeter  Change.  Meant  for  the 
first  time  to  ride  with  Belinda  to  the  Park — put  my  foot  in  the 
stirrup,  and  found  myself  on  my  own  back  instead  of  the  mare's. 
Other  men  are  thrown  by  their  horses,  but  a  saddle  does  it  for  me. 
Well,  nothing  is  so  hard  as  my  luck — unless  it  be  the  fourth  flag  or 
stone  from  the  post  at  the  nortli  corner  of  Harley  Street. 

14th.  Run  down  in  a  wherry  by  a  coal-brig  off  Greenwich,  but 
providentially  picked  up  by  a  steamer,  that  burst  her  boiler  directly 
afterwards.  Saved  to  be  scalded  !  But  misfortunes  with  me  never 
came  single,  from  my  very  childhood.  I  remember  when  my  little 
brothers  and  sisters  tumbled  downstairs,  they  always  hitched  half  way 
at  the  angle.  My  luck  invariably  turned  the  corner.  It  could  not 
bear  to  bate  me  a  single  bump. 

17th.  Had  my  eye  picked  out  by  a  pavior  who  was  axing  his  way, 
he  didn't  care  where.  Sent  home  in  a  h  ickney  chariot  that  upseU 
Paid  Jarvis  a  sovereign  for  a  shilling.     My  luck  all  over! 


532 


THE  SCRAPE-BOOK. 


1st  of  May.  My  flue  on  fire.  Not  a  sweep  to  be  had  for  love  or 
money  !  Lucky  enough /<7r  me^  the  parish  engine  soon  arrived,  with 
all  the  charity  school.  Boys  are  fond  of  playing— and  indulged  their 
propensity  by  playing  into  my  best  drawing-room.  Every  friend  I 
had  dropped  in  to  dinner.  Nothing  but  Lacedemonian  black  broth. 
Others  have  pot-luck,  but  I  have  not  even  pint-luck— at  least  of  the 
right  sort. 

8th.  Found,  on  getting  up,  that  the  kitchen-garden  had  been 
stripped  by  thieves,  but  had  the  luck  at  night  to  catch  some  one  in 
the  garden,  by  walking  into  my  own  trap.  Afraid  to  call  out,  for 
fear  of  being  shot  at  by  the  gardener,  who  would  have  hit  me  to  a  dead 
certainty — for  such  is  my  luck  !  . 

loth.  Agricultural  distress  is  a  treat  to  mine.  My  old  friend  Bill 
—I  must  henceforth  call  him  Corn-Bill— has,  this  morning,  laid  his 
tinfeehng  wooden  leg  on  my  tenderest  toe,  like  a  thresher.     In  spite 


A  Cornish  Man.  4 

of  Dibdin,  I  don't  believe  that  oak  has  any  heart,  or  it  would  not  be 
such  r.  walking  treadmill  ! 

1 2th.  Two  pieces  of  "  my  usual."  First  knocked  down  by  a  mad 
bull ;  secondly,  picked  up  by  a  pickpocket.  Anybody  but  me  would 
have  found  one  honest  humane  man  out  of  a  whole  crowd  ;  but  I  am 
born  to  suffer,  whether  done  by  accident  or  done  by  design.  Luckily 
for  me  and  the  pickpocket,  I  was  able  to  identify  him,  bound  over  to 
Oiosecute,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  exporting  him  to  Botany  Bay. 


A  TRUE  STORY.  533 

I  suppose  I  performed  well  in  a  court  of  justice,  for  the  next  day— 
*^  Encore  un  coup !"— I  had  a  summons  to  serve  with  a  Middlesex 
jury,  at  the  Old  Bailey,  for  a  fortnight. 

I4lh.  My  number  in  the  lottery  lias  come  up  a  capital  priae.     Luck 
at  last— if  i  had  not  lost  the  ticket. 


A   TRUE  STORY* 

Whoe'er  has  seen  upon  the  human  face 
The  yellow  jaundice  and  the  jaundice  black, 
May  form  a  notion  of  old  Colonel  Case 
With  nigger  Pompey  waiting  at  his  back. 

Case,— as  the  case  is,  many  time  with  folks 
From  hot  Bengal,  Calcutta,  or  Bombay,— 
Had  tint  his  tint,  as  Scottish  tongues  would  say. 
And  show'd  two  cheeks  as  yellow  as  eggs'  yolks, 
Pompey,  the  chip  of  some  old  ebon  block, 
In  hue  was  like  his  master's  stiff  cravat, 
And  might  indeed  have  claim'd  akin  to  thatf 
Coming,  as  he  did,  of  an  old  black  stock. 

Case  wore  the  liver's  livery  that  such 
Must  wear,  their  past  excesses  to  denote, 
Like  Greenwich  pensioners  that  take  too  much, 
And  then  do  penance  in  a  yellow  coat. 
Pt)mpey's,  a  deep  and  permanent  jet-dye, 
A  stain  of  Nature's  staining — one  of  those 
We  caW/ast  colours — merely,  I  suppose, 
Because  such  colours  never  go  ox  fly. 

Pray  mark  this  difference  of  dark  and  sallow, 
Pompey's  black  husk,  and  the  old  Colonel's  yelloi 

The  Colonel,  once  a  penniless  beginner, 
From  a  long  Indian  rubber  rose  a  winner, 
With  plenty  of  pagodas  in  his  pocket. 
And  homeward  turning  his  Hibernian  thought, 
Deem'd  Wicklow  was  the  place  that  ought 
To  harbour  one  whose  wick  was  in  the  socket 

Unhappily  for  Case's  scheme  of  quiet, 
Wicklow  just  then  was  in  a  pretty  riot, 
A  f  iCt  recorded  in  each  day's  diurnals, 
Things  Case  was  not  accustom'd  to  peruse. 

Careless  of  news  ; 
But  Pompey  always  read  these  bloody  journals, 

•  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


534  ^   TRUE  STORY. 

Full  of  Killmany  and  of  Killmore  work, 
The  freaks  of  some  O'Shaunessy's  shillaly, 
Of  morning  frays  by  some  O'Brien  Burke, 
Or  horrid  nightly  outrage  by  some  Daly  ; 
How  scums  deserving  of  the  Devil's  ladle 
Would  fall  upon  the  harmless  scull  and  knock  it, 
And  if  he  found  an  infant  in  the  cradle, 
Stern  Rock  would  hardly  hesitate  to  rock  it  j— 


'^^ta&i'i: 


Captain  Rock. 

In  fact,  he  read  of  burner  and  of  killer, 

And  Irish  ravages,  day  after  day. 

Till,  haunting  in  his  dreams,  he  used  to  say, 

That  "  Pompey  could  not  sleep  on  Pompeys  Pillar* 

Judge  then  the  horror  of  the  nigger's  face 
To  rtnd — with  such  impressions  of  that  dire  land- 
That  Case, — his  master, — was  a  packmg-case 

For  Ireland  ! 
He  saw  in  fearful  reveries  arise, 
Phantasmagorias  of  those  dreadful  men 
Whose  fame  associate  with  Irish  plots  is, 
Fitzgeralds— Tones— O'Connors— Hares— and  then 
"Those  Emmets"  not  so  "little  in  his  eyes" 

As  Doctor  Watts's  ! 
He  felt  himself  piked,  roasted,  carved,  and  hack'd, 
His  big  black  burly  body  seem'd,  in  fact, 
A  pincushion  for  Tern^r's  pins  and  needles, — 
Oh,  how  he  wish'd  himself  beneath  the  sun 


A  TRUE  STORY.  535 

Of  Afric— or  in  far  Barbadoes— one 

Of  Bishop  Coleridge's  new  black  beadles. 

Full  of  tliis  fright, 
With  broken  peace  and  broken  English  choking, 
As  black  as  any  raven,  and  as  croaking, 
Pompey  rush'd  in  upon  his  masters  sight, 
Plump'd  on  his  knees,  and  clasp'd  his  sable  digits, 
Thus  stirring  Curiosity's  sharp  fidgets— 
"  O  Massa  !— Massa  !— Colonel !— Massa  Case  !— 
Not  go  to  Ireland  !— Ireland  dam  bad  place  ; 
Dem  take  our  bloods— dem  Irish— every  drop— 
Oh,  why  for  Massa  go  so  far  a  distance 

To 'have  him  life  ? " Here  Pompey  made  a  stop, 

Putting  an  awful  period  to  existence. 

"  Not  go  to  Ireland— not  to  Ireland,  fellow  ! 

And  murder'd— why  should  I  be  murder'd,  sirrah  ? 

Cried  Case,  with  anger's  tinge  upon  his  yellow. 

Pompey,  for  answer,  pointing  in  a  mirror 

The  Colonel's  saffron,  and  his  own  japan.  ...        ,« 

"  Well,  what  has  that  to  do  ?— quick— speak  outright,  boy  ! 

«'  O  Massa  !  "—(so  the  explanation  ran) 

«  Massa  be  kill'd— 'cause  Massa  Orange  Man,  , 

And  Pompey  kill'd— 'cause  Pompey  not  a  Whtie  Boy! 


f ompey's  Fillafft 


536 


"  Oh,  nothing  in  hfe  can  sadden  us  ! ' 


THE  SORROWS  OF  AN  UNDERTAKER* 

TO  mention  only  by  name  the  sorrows  of  an  Undertaker,  will  be 
likely  to  raise  a  smile  on  most  faces,— the  mere  words  suggest  a 
solemn  stalking  parody  of  grief  to  the  satiric  fancy  ;— but  give  a  fair 
hearing  to  my  woes,  and  even  the  veriest  mocker  may  learn  to  pity  an 
Undertaker  who  has  been  unfortunate  in  all  his  undertakings. 

My  Father,  a  Furnisher  and  Performer  in  the  funeral  line,  used  to 
say  of  me,— noticing  some  boyish  levities — that  "  I  should  never  do 
for  an  Undertaker."  But  the  prediction  was  wrong — my  parent  lied, 
and  I  did  for  him  in  the  way  of  business.  Having  no  other  alternative, 
I  took  possession  of  a  very  fair  stock  and  business.  I  felt  at  first  as  if 
plunged  in  the  Black  Sea— and  when  1  read  my  name  upon  the  shop 
door,  it  threw  a  crape  over  my  spirits,  that  I  did  not  get  rid  of  for 
some  months. 

Then  came  the  cares  of  business.  The  scandalous  insinuated  that 
the  funerals  were  not  so  decorously  performed  as  in  the  time  of  the 
Late.  I  discharged  my  mutes,  who  were  grown  fat  and  jocular,  and 
sought  about  for  the  lean  and  lank-visaged  kind.  But  these  demure 
rogues  cheated  and  robbed  me — plucked  my  feathers  and  pruned  my 
scarfs,  and  I  was  driven  back  again  to  my  "  merrie  men," — whose  only 
fault  was  making  a  pleasure  of  their  business. 

Soon  after  this,  I  made  myself  prominent  in  the  parish,  and  obtained 
a  contract  for  Parochial  Conchology— or  shells  for  the  paupers.  But 
this  even,  as  I  may  say,  broke  down  on  its  first  tressels.  Having,  as 
my  first  job,  to  inter  a  workhouse  female — yEtat.  96— and  wishing  to 
gain  the  good  opinion  of  the  parish,  I  had  made  the  arrangements 
with  more  than  usual  decency.  The  company  were  at  the  door. 
•  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


THE  SORROWS  OF  AN  UNDERTAKER. 


537 


Placing  myself  at  the  head,  with  my  best  burial  face,  and  my  slowest 
solemnity  of  step,  I  set  forwnrd,  and,  thanks  to  my  professional  deaf- 
ness— induced  by  the  constant  hammering — I  never  perceived,  till  at 
the  church  gates,  that  the  procession  had  not  stirred  from  the  door  c^ 
the  house.  So  good  a  joke  was  not  lost  upon  my  two  mutes,  who 
made  it  an  excuse  for  chuckling  on  after  occasions.  But  to  me  the 
consequence  was  serious.  A  notion  arose  amongst  the  poor  that  I  was 
too  proud  to  walk  along  with  their  remains,  and  the  ferment  ran  so 
high,  that  I  was  finally  compelled  to  give  up  my  contract. 

So  much  for  foot-funerals.  Now  for  coach-work.  The  extravagant 
charges  of  the  jobbers  at  last  induced  me  to  set  up  a  hearse  and 
mourning-coaches  of  my  own,  with  sleek  ebony,  long-tailed  horses  to 
match.  One  of  tliese— the  finest  of  the  set — had  been  sold  to  me  under 
warranty  of  being  sound  and  free  from  vice  ;  and  so  he  was,  but  the 
dealer  never  told  me  that  he  had  been  a  ch.irger  at  Astley's.  Accord- 
ingly on  his  very  first  performance,  in  passing  through  Bow, — at  that 


Fairy  Land. 


time  a  kind  of  Fairy  Land, — he  thought  proper,  on  hearing  a  show- 
man's trumpet,  to  dance  a  cotillon  in  his  feathers !  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  travel  on  with  three  to  the  next  stage,  where  I  sold 
the  caperer  at  a  heavy  loss,  and  to  the  infinite  regret  of  my  merry 
mourners,  with  whom  this  exhibition  had  made  him  a  great  favourite. 
From  this  period  my  business  rapidly  declined,  till,  instead  of  five  or 


538  THE  SORROWS  OF  AN  UNDERTAKER. 

six  demises,  on  an  average,  I  put  in  only  two  defuncts  and  a  half  pef 
week. 

In  this  extremity  a  "black  job"  was  brought  to  me  that  promised 
to  make  amends  for  the  rest.  One  fine  morning  a  brace  of  executors 
valked  into  the  shop,  and  handing  to  me  the  following  extract  of  a 
will,  politely  requested  that  I  would  perform  accordingly — and  with 
the  pleasing  addition  that  I  was  to  be  regardless  of  the  expense.  The 
document  ran  thus  :  "  Item,  I  will  and  desire  that  after  death,  my  body 
be  placed  in  a  strong  leaden  coffin,  the  same  to  be  afterwards  enclosed 
in  one  of  oak,  and  therein  my  remains  to  be  conveyed  handsomely 
to  the  village  of  *  *  *  in  Norfolk,  my  birthplace  ;  there  to  lie,  being 
duly  watched,  during  one  night,  in  the  family  mansion  now  unoc- 
cupied, and  on  the  morrow  to  be  carried  thence  to  the  church,  the 
coffin  being  borne  by  the  six  oldest  resident  and  decayed  parishioners, 
male  or  female,  and  for  the  same  they  shall  receive  severally  the  sum 
of  five  pounds,  to  be  paid  on  or  before  the  day  of  interment." 

It  will  be  believed  that  I  lost  no  time  in  preparing  the  last  solid 
and  costly  receptacles  for  the  late  Lady  Lambert ;  and  the  unusual 
bulk  of  the  deceased  seemed  in  prospective  to  justify  a  bill  of  propor- 
tionate magnitude.  I  was  prodisjal  of  plumes  and  scutcheons,  of  staves 
and  scarfs,  and  mourning  coaches  ;  and  finally,  raising  a  whole  com- 
pany of  black  cavalry,  we  set  out  by  stages,  short  and  sweet,  for  our 
destination.  I  had  been  prudent  enough  to  send  a  letter  before  me 
to  prepare  the  bearers,  and  imprudent  enough  to  remit  their  fees  in 
advance.  But  I  had  no  misgivings.  My  men  enjoyed  the  excursion, 
and  so  did  I.  We  ate  well,  drank  well,  slept  well,  and  expected  to  be 
well  paid  for  what  was  so  well  done.  At  the  last  stage  it  happened  I 
had  rather  an  intricate  reckoning  to  arrange,  by  which  means,  being 
detained  a  full  hour  behind  the  cavalcade,  I  did  not  reach  the  desired 
village  till  the  whole  party  had  established  themselves  at  the  Dying 
Dolphin — a  fact  I  first  ascertained  from  hearing  the  merriment  of  my 
two  mutes  in  the  parlour.  Highly  indignant  at  this  breach  of  de- 
corum, I  rushed  in  on  the  offending  couple  ;  and  let  the  Undertaking 
Reader  conceive  my  feelings  when  the  foUcnving  letter  was  put  intj 
my  hands,  explaining  at  once  the  good  joke  of  the  two  fellows,  or 
rather  that  of  the  whole  village. 

"  Sir, — We  have  sought  out  the  six  oldest  of  the  pauper  parishioners 
of  this  place,  namely  as  follows  : — 

Margaret  Squires,  aged  loi,  blind  and  bedrid. 

Timothy  Topping,  aged  98,  paralytic  and  bedrid. 

Darius  Watts,  aged  95,  with  loss  of  both  legs. 

Barbara  Copp,  94  years,  born  without  arms. 
^  Philip  Gill,  about  81,  an  idiot. 

Mary  Ridges,  79,  afflicted  with  St  Vitus. 
Among  whom  we  have  distributed  your   Thirty  Pounds   according 
to  desire,  and  for  which  they  are  very  grateful. 


John  Gills,  1  Overseers  " 

Sam.  Rackstrow,  ]  Overseers. 


Such  were  the  six  bearers  who  were  to  carry  Lady  Lambert  to  the 
jhurch,  and  who  could  as  soon  have  carried  the  church  to  Lady 


THE  CARELESSE  NURSE-MA  YD.  539 

Lambert.  To  crown  all,  I  rashly  listened  to  the  advice  of  my  thought- 
less mutes,  and  in  an  evil  hour  deposited  the  body  without  troubling 
any  parishioner,  old  or  young,  on  the  subject.  The  consequence  is, 
the  executors  demur  to  my  bill,  because  I  have  not  acted  up  to  the 
letter  of  my  instructions.  I  have  had  to  stand  treat  for  a  large  party 
on  tlie  road,  to  sustain  all  the  charges  of  the  black  cavalry,  and  am 
besides  minus  thirty  pounds  in  charity,  without  even  the  merit  of  a 
charitable  intention  ! 


THE   CARELESSE  NURSE-MA  YD* 

I  SAWE  a  Mayd  sitte  on  a  Bank, 

Beguiled  by  Wooer  fayne  and  fond  ; 

And  whiles  His  flattery nge  Vowes  She  drank, 

Her  Nurselynge  slipt  within  a  Pond  ! 


"Accustomed  to  the  Care  of  Children." 

All  Even  Tide  they  Talkde  nnd  Kist, 
For  She  was  fnyre  and  He  was  Kinde; 
The  Sunne  went  down  before  Slie  wist 
Another  Sonne  had  sett  behinde  ! 

With  angrie  Hands  and  frownynge  Browe, 
That  deemd  Her  owne  the  Urchine's  Sinne, 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


540  THE  LIFE  OF  ZIMMERMAN^, 

She  pluckt  Him  out,  but  he  was  now© 
Past  being  Whipt  for  fallynge  in. 

She  then  beginnes  to  wayle  the  Ladde 
With  Shrikes  that  Echo  answerde  round— 
O  !  fooUshe  Mayd  to  be  soe  sadde 
The  Momente  that  her  Care  was  drownd  I 


THE  LIFE  OF  ZIMMERMANN, 

(BY  HIMSELF.)* 
"This,  this,  is  solitude." — Lord  Bvkom. 

I  WAS  born,  I  may  almost  say,  an  orphan :  my  father  died  threa 
months  before  I  saw  the  light,  and  my  mother  three  hours  aftef 
— thus  I  was  left  in  the  whole  world  alone,  and  an  only  child,  for  I 
had  neither  brothers  nor  sisters  ;  much  of  my  after-passion  for  soli- 
tude might  be  ascribed  to  this  cause,  for  I  believe  our  tendencies  date 
themselves  from  a  much  earlier  age,  or  rather  youth,  than  is  generally 
imagined.  It  was  remarked  that  I  could  go  alone  at  nine  months,  and 
I  have  had  an  aptitude  to  going  alone  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  The 
first  words  I  learnt  to  say,  were  "  I  by  myself,  I  "—or  thou— or  he— 
or  she — or  it — but  I  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  pronounce  any 
personals  in  the  plural.  My  little  games  and  habits  were  equally  sin- 
gular. 1  was  fond  of  playing  at  Solitary  or  at  Patience,  or  another 
game  of  cards  of  my  own  invention,  namely,  whist,  with  three  dummies. 
Of  books,  my  favourite  was  Robinson  Crusoe,  especially  the  first  part, 
for  I  was  not  fond  of  the  intrusion  of  Friday,  and  thought  the  natives 
really  were  Savages  to  spoil  such  a  solitude.  At  ten  years  of  age  I 
was  happily  placed  with  the  Rev.  Mr  Steinkopff,  a  widower,  who  took 
in  only  the  limited  number  of  six  pupils,  and  had  only  me  to  begin 
with  :  here  I  enjoyed  myself  very  much,  learning  in  a  first  and  last 
class  in  school  hours,  and  playing  in  playtime  at  hoop,  and  other 
pretty  games  not  requiring  partners.  My  playground  w.is,  in  short,, 
a  Garden  of  Eden,  and  I  did  not  even  sigh  for  an  Eve;  but,  like  Para- 
dise, it  was  too  happy  to  last.  I  was  removed  from  Mr  SteinkopfPs 
to  the  University  of  Gottin.i^en,  and  at  once  the  eyes  of  six  hundred 
pupils,  and  the  pupils  of  twelve  hundred  eyes,  seem  fastened  upon  me  : 
I  felt  like  an  owl  forced  into  daylight  ;  often  and  often  I  shamm'd 
ill,  as  an  excuse  for  confining  myself  to  my  chamber,  but  some  officious 
would-be  friends,  insisting  on  coming  to  sit  with  me,  as  they  said,  to 
enliven  my  solitude,  I  was  forced  as  a  last  resource  to  do  that  which 
subjected  me,  on  the  principle  of  Howard's  Prison  Discipline,  to  soli- 
tary confinement.  But  even  this  pleasure  did  not  last  ;  the  heads  of 
the  College  found  out  that  solitary  confinement  was  no  punishment, 
and  put  another  student  in  the  same  cell  ;  in  this  extremity  I  had  no 
alternative  but  to  endeavour  to  make  him  a  convert  to  my  principles, 
and  in  some  days  I  succeeded  in  convincing  him  of  the  individual  in« 
*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


THE  LIFE  OF  ZIMMERMANN.  541 

iependence  of  man,  tae  solid  pleasures  of  solitude,  and  the  hollow  one 
of  society,— in  short,  he  so  warmly  adopted  my  views,  that  in  a  trans- 
port of  sympathy  we  swore  an  eternal  friendship,  and  agreed  to  separate 
for  ever,  and  keep  ourselves  to  ourselves  as  much  as  possible.  To  this 
end  we  formed  with  our  blanket  a  screen  across  our  cell,  and  that  we 
might  not  even  in  thought  associate  with  each  other,  he  soliloquised 
only  in  French,  of  which  1  was  ignorant,  and  I  in  English,  to  which 
he  was  equally  a  stranger.  Under  this  system  my  wishes  were  grati- 
fied, for  I  think  I  felt  more  intensely  lonely  than  I  ever  remember  when 
more  strictly  alone.  Of  course  this  condition  had  a  conclusion  ;  we 
were  brought  out  agam  unwillingly  into  the  common  world,  and  the 
firm  of  Zimmermann,  Nobody,  and  Co.,  was  compelled  to  admit— six 
hundred  partners.  In  this  extremity,  my  fellow-prisoner  Zmgleman 
and  myself  had  recourse  to  the  persuasions  of  oratory.  We  preached 
solitude,  and  got  quite  a  congregation,  and  of  the  six  hundred  hearers, 
four  hundred  at  least  became  converts  to  our  Unitarian  doctrine  ; 
every  one  of  these  disciples  strove  to  fly  to  the  most  obscure  recesses, 
and  the  little  cemetery  of  the  College  had  always  plenty  of  those 
who  were  trying  to  make  themselves  scarce.  This  of  course  was  af- 
flicting ;  as  in  the  game  of  puss  in  a  corner,  it  was  difficult  to  get  a 
corner  unoccupied  to  be  alone  in  ;  the  defections  and  desertions  frum 
the  College  were  consequently  numerous,  and  for  a  long  time  the  state 
gazette  contained  d  lily  advertisements  for  missing  gentlemen,  with  a 
description  of  their  persons  and  habits,  and  invariably  concluding  with 
this  sentence  :  "Of  a  melancholy  turn,— calls  himself  a  Zimmermanian, 
and  affects  solitude."  In  fact,  as  Schiller's  Robbers  begot  Robbers,  so 
did  my  solitude  beget  solitudinarians,  but  with  this  difference,  that 
the  dramatist's  disciples  frequented  the  Highways,  and  mine  the  Bye- 
ways  ! 

The  consequence  was  what  might  have  been  expected,  which  I  had 
foreseen,  and  ardently  desired.  1  was  expelled  from  the  University 
of  Gbttingen.  This  was  perhaps  the  triumph  of  my  life.  A  grand 
dinner  was  got  up  by  Zmgleman  in  my  honour,  at  which  more  than 
three  hundred  were  present,  but  in  tacit  homage  to  my  principles, 
they  never  spoke  nor  held  any  communication  with  each  other,  and 
at  a  concerted  signal,  the  toast  of  "Zimmermann  and  Solitude"  was 
drunk,  by  dumb  show,  in  appropriate  solemn  silence.  I  was  much 
affected  by  this  tribute,  and  left  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  to  think,  with 
such  sentiments,  how  many  of  us  might  be  tlirown  together  again. 
Being  thus  left  to  myselt,  like  a  vessel  with  only  one  hand  on  board, 
I  was  at  liberty  to  steer  my  own  course,  and  accordingly  took  a  lodg- 
ing at  Number  One,  in  Wilderness  Street,  that  held  out  the  inviting 
prospect  of  a  single  room  to  let  for  a  single  man.  In  this  congeiiial 
situation  I  composed  my  great  work  on  Solitude,  and  here  I  think 
it  necessary  to  warn  the  reader  against  many  spurious  books,  calling 
themselves  "  Companions  to  Zimmermann's  Solitude,"  as  if  solitude 
could  have  society.  Alas  !  from  this  work  I  may  date  the  decline 
which  my  presentiment  tells  me  will  terminate  in  my  death.  My  book, 
though  written  against  populousness,  became  so  popular,  that  its 
author,  though  in  love  with  loneliness,  could  never  be  alone.  Striv- 
ing to  fly  from  the  face  of  man,  I  could  never  escape  it,  nor  that  o 


542 


THE  LIFE  OF  ZIMMERMANM. 


woman  and  child  into  the  bargain.  When  I  stirred  abroad  mobs  sur- 
rounded me,  and  cried,  "Here  is  the  Solitary  !  " — when  I  stayed  at  home 
I  was  equally  crowded;  all  the  public  societies  of  Gottingt-n  thou-ht 
proper  to  come  up  to  me  with  addresses,  and  not  even  by  deputation. 
Flight  was  my  only  resource,  but  it  did  not  avail,  for  I  could  not  fly 
from  myself.  Wherever  I  went  Zimmermann  and  Solitude  had  got  be- 
fore me,  and  their  vot.iries  assembled  to  meet  me.  In  vain  1  travelled 
throughout  the  European  and  Asiatic  continent:  with  an  enthusi^ism 
and  perseverance  of  which  only  Germans  are  capable,  some  of  my 
countrymen  were  sure  to  haunt  me,  and  really  showed,  by  the  dis- 
tance they  journeyed,  that  they  were  ready  to  go  all  lengths  with  me 
and  my  doctrine.  Some  of  these  pilgrims  even  brought  their  wives 
and  children  along  with  them  in  search  of  my  solitude  ;  and  were  so 
unreasonable  even  as  to  murmur  at  my  taking  the  inside  of  a  coach 
or  the  cabin  of  a  packet-boat  to  myself. 

From  these  persecutions  I  was  released  by  what  some  persons 
would  call  an  unfortunate  accident — a  vessel  in  which  I  sailed  from 
Lei^horn,  going  down  at  sea  with  all  hands  excepting  my  own  pair, 
which  happened  to  have  grappled  a  hen-coop.  There  was  no  sail  in 
sight,  nor  any  land  to  be  seen — nothing  but  sea  and  sky  ;  and  from 
the  midst  of  the  watery  expanse  it  was  perhaps  the  first  and  only 
glimpse  I  ever  had  of  real  and  perfect  solitude,  yet  so  inconsistent  is 
human  nature,  I  could  not  really  and  perfecth  enter  into  its  enjoy- 
ment. I  was  picked  up  at  length  by  a  British  brig  of  war  ;  and, 
schooled  by  the  past,  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  conceal  my  name, 
and  to  adopt  the  English  one  of  Grundy.  Under  this  7ioin  de  jJiterre, 
but  really  a  name  of  peace,  I  enjoyed  comparative  quiet,  interrupt!  d 
only  by  the  pertinacious  attend. .nee  of  an   unconscious   countryman, 

who,  noticing  my  very  retired 
habits,  endeavour  by  daily  lec- 
tures from  my  own  work,  to 
make  me  a  convert  to  my  own 
principles.  In  short,  he  so 
wore  me  out,  that  at  last,  to  get 
rid  of  his  importunities,  I  told 
him  in  confidence  that  I  was 
the  author  hiinself.  But  the 
result  was  anything  but  what 
I  expected  ;  and  here  I  must 
blush  a;^'ain  for  the  inconsis- 
tency of  human  nature.  While 
W^inkells  knew  me  only  as 
Grundy,  he  painted  nothing  but 
the  charms  of  Solitude,  and  ex- 
horted me  to  detach  myself 
from  society  ;  but  no  sooner 
did  he  learn  that  I  was  Zim- 
mermann,  than  he  insisted  on 

my     going    to    Lady    C- 's 

rout    and    his   own    conversatione.        In    fact,    he    wanted   to     make 
me,  instead  of  a  Lion  of  the  Desert,  a  Lion  of  the  Menagerie.     How 


"Sare,  I  am  at  where? — " 
"Well,  I  know  you  be  !" 


THE  COMPASS,   WITH  VARIATION'S.  543 

I  resented  such  a  proposition  may  be  supposed,  as  well  as  his  oflfet 
to  procure  for  me  the  first  vacancy  that  happened  in  the  situation  of 

Hermit  at  Lord  P 's  Hermitage  ;  being,  as  he  was  pleased  to  say, 

not  only  able  to  bear  solitude,  but  well-bred  and  well-informed,  and  tit 
to  receive  cotnpany.  The  effect  of  this  unfortunate  disclosure  was  to 
make  me  leave  England,  for  fear  of  meeting  with  the  fate  of  a  man 
or  an  ox  that  ventures  to  quit  the  common  herd.  I  should  immedi- 
ately have  been  declared  mad,  and  mobbed  into  lunacy,  and  then  put 
into  solitary  confinement,  with  a  keeper  always  with  me,  as  a  person 
beside  himself,  and  not  fit  to  be  left  alone  for  a  moment.  As  such  a 
fate  would  have  been  worse  to  me  than  death,  I  immediately  left 
London,  and  am  now  living  anonymously  in  an  uninhabited  house,— 
prudence  forbids  me  to  say  where. 


THE  COMPASS,    WITH  VARIATIONS* 

•The  Needles  have  sometimes  been  fatal  to  Mariners." — Picture  qflsU  ofWigkIt 

One  close  of  day — 'twas  in  the  Bay 

Of  Naples — bay  of  glory  ! — 

While  light  was  hanging  crowns  of  gold 

On  mountains  high  and  hoary, 

A  gallant  bark  got  under  weigh, 

And  with  her  sails  my  story. 

For  Leghorn  she  was  bound  direct, 
With  wine  and  oil  for  cargo. 
Her  crew  of  men  some  nine  or  ten. 
The  captain's  name  was  lago  ; 
A  good  and  gallant  bark  she  was, 
La  Donna  Ccall'd)  del  Lago. 

Bronzed  mariners  were  her's  to  view. 
With  brown  cheeks,  clear  or  muddy, 
Dark,  shining  eyes,  and  coal-black  hair. 
Meet  heads  for  painter's  study  ; 
But  'midst  their  tan  there  stood  one  maA 
Whose  cheek  was  fair  and  ruddy  ; 

Hij  brow  was  high,  a  loftier  brow 
Ne'er  shone  in  song  or  sonnet, 
His  hair  a  little  scant,  and  when 
He  doff'd  his  cap  or  bonnet, 
One  saw  that  Grey  had  gone  beyond 
A  premiership  upon  it  ! 


His  eye — a  passenger  was  he. 
The  cabin  he  had  hired  it, — 

*  Comic  Annual  1833, 


i^  THE  COMPASS,   WITH  VARIATIONS, 

His  eye  was  grey,  and  when  he  look'd 
Around,  the  prospect  fired  it — 
A  fine  poetic  light,  as  if 
The  Appe-Nine  inspired  it. 

His  frame  was  stout — in  height  about 
Six  feet — well  made  and  portly  ; 
Of  dress  and  manner  just  to  give 
A  sketch,  but  very  shortly, 
His  order  seem'd  a  composite 
Of  rustic  with  the  courtly. 

He  ate  and  quaff'd,  and  joked  and  laugh'^ 

And  chatted  with  the  seamen, 

And  often  task'd  their  skill  and  ask'd, 

*'  What  weather  is't  to  be,  man  ?" 

No  demonstration  there  appear'd 

That  he  was  any  demon. 

No  sort  of  sign  there  was  that  he 
Could  raise  a  stormy  rumpus, 
Like  Prospero  mnke  breezes  blow, 
And  rocks  and  billows  thump  us,— 
But  little  we  supposed  what  he 
Could  with  the  needle  compass  1 

Soon  came  a  storm — the  sea  at  first 
Seem'd  lying  almost  fallow — 
When  lo  !  full  crash,  with  billowy  dash, 
From  clouds  of  black  and  yellow, 
Came  such  a  gale,  as  blows  but  once 
A  century,  like  the  aloe! 

Our  stomachs  we  had  just  prepared 

To  vest  a  small  amount  in  ; 

When,  gush  !  a  flood  of  brine  came  down 

The  skylight — quite  a  fountain. 

And  right  on  end  the  table  rear'd, 

Just  like  the  Table  Mountain. 

Down  rush'd  the  soup,  down  gush'd  the  winfl^ 

Each  roll,  its  r61e  repeating, 

Roll'd  down — the  round  of  beef  declared 

For  parting — not  for  meating  ! 

Off  flew  the  fowls,  and  all  the  game 

Was  "  too  far  gone  for  eating  ! " 

Down  knife  and  fork — down  went  the  porl^ 

The  lamb  too  broke  its  tether  ; 

Down  mustard  went — each  condiment — 

Salt — pepper — all  together! 

Down  everything,  like  craft  that  seek 

The  Downs  in  stomy  weather. 


THE  COMPASS,  WITH  VARIATIONS, 

Down  plunged  the  Lady  of  the  Lake^ 
Her  timbers  seem'd  to  sever  ; 
Down,  down,  a  dreary  derry  down, 
Such  lurch  she  had  gone  never  ; 
She  almost  seem'd  about  to  take 
A  bed  of  down  for  ever  ! 


545 


A  Storm  in  Table  Bay. 

Down  dropt  the  captain's  nether  jaw, 

Thus  robb'd  of  all  its  uses, 

He  thought  he  saw  the  Evil  One 

Beside  Vesuvian  sluices, 

Playing  at  dice  for  soul  and  ship, 

And  throwing  Sink  and  Deuces, 

Down  fell  the  steward  on  his  face, 
To  all  the  Saints  commending  ; 
And  candles  to  the  Virgin  vow'd, 
As  save-alls  'gainst  his  ending. 
Down  fell  the  mate,  he  thought  his  fate. 
Check-mate,  was  close  impending  ! 

Down  fell  the  cook — the  cabin  boy, 
Their  beads  with  fervour  telling, 
"While  alps  of  serge,  with  snowy  verge, 
Above  the  yards  came  yelling. 
Down  fell  the  crew,  and  on  their  knees 
Shudder'd  at  each  white  swelling  ! 


a  M 


546 


THE  COMPASS,  WITH  VARIATIONS. 

Down  sunk  the  sun  of  bloody  hue, 
His  crimson  light  a  cleaver 
To  each  red  rover  of  a  wave  : 
To  eye  of  fancy-weaver, 
Neptune,  the  God,  seem'd  tossing  in 
A  raging  scarlet  fever  ! 

Sore,  sore  afraid,  each  Papist  pray'd 

To  Saint  and  Virgin  Mary  ; 

But  one  there  was  that  stood  composed 

Amid  the  waves'  vagary  ; 

As  staunch  as  rock,  a  true  game  cock 

'Mid  chicks  of  Mother  Gary  ! 

His  ruddy  cheek  retain'd  its  streak, 
No  danger  seem'd  to  shrink  him  ; 
His  step  still  bold, — of  mortal  mould 
The  crew  could  hardly  think  him : 
Th£  Lady  of  the  Lake,  he  seem'd 
To  know,  could  never  sink  him. 

Relax'd  at  last,  the  furious  gale, 
Quite  out  of  breath  with  racing  ; 


A  Ruff  Sea. 


The  boiling  flood  in  milder  mood. 
With  gentler  billows  chasing ; 
From  stem  to  stern,  with  frequent  turn, 
The  Stranger  took  to  pacing. 


THE  COMPASS,   WITH  VARIATIONS,  ^fj 

And  as  he  walk'd  to  self  he  talk'd, 

Some  ancient  ditty  thrumming, 

In  under  tone,  as  not  alone — 

Now  whistling,  and  now  humming— 

*'  You're  welcome,  Charlie,"  "  Cowdenknowes,' 

"  Kenmure,"  or  "  Campbells'  Coming." 

Down  went  the  wind,  down  went  the  wave, 

Fear  quitted  the  most  finical  ; 

Tlie  Saints,  I  wot,  were  soon  forgot, 

And  Hope  was  at  the  pinnacle  : 

When  rose  on  high,  a  frightful  cry— 

"The  Devil's  in  the  binnacle  !  " 

''The  Saints  be  near,"  the  helmsman  cried. 

His  voice  with  quite  a  falter — 

*'  Steady's  my  helm,  but  every  look 

The  needle  seems  to  alter  ; 

God  only  knows  where  China  lies, 

Jamaica,  or  Gibraltar  ! " 

The  captain  stared  aghast  at  mate, 

The  pilot  at  th'apprentice  ; 

No  fancy  of  the  German  Sea 

Of  Fiction  the  event  is  : 

But  when  they  at  the  compass  look'd. 

It  seem'd  non  compass  mentis. 

Now  north,  now  south,  now  east,  now  wetlf 

The  wavering  point  was  shaken, 

*Twas  past  the  whole  philosophy 

Of  Newton,  or  of  Bacon  ; 

Never  by  compass,  till  that  hour, 

Such  latitudes  were  taken  ! 

With  fearful  speech,  each  after  each 
Took  turns  in  the  inspection  ; 
They  found  no  gun — no  iron — none 
To  vary  its  direction  ; 
It  seem'd  a  new  magnetic  case 
Of  Poles  in  Insurrection  ! 

Farewell  to  wives,  farewell  their  lives. 

And  all  their  household  riches  ; 

Oh  !  while  they  thought  of  girl  or  boy. 

And  dear  domestic  niches. 

All  down  the  side  which  holds  the  hearty 

That  needle  gave  them  stitches. 

With  deep  amaze,  the  Stranger  gazed 
To  see  them  so  white-liver'd  : 


548  THE  COMPASS,  WITH  VARIATIONS. 

And  walk'd  abaft  the  binnacle, 
To  know  at  what  they  shiver'd  ; 
But  when  he  stood  beside  the  card, 
St  Josef  !  how  it  quiver'd  ! 

No  fancy-motion,  brain-begot, 
In  eye  of  timid  dreamer — 
The  nervous  finger  of  a  sot 
Ne'er  show'd  a  plainer  tremor  ; 
To  every  brain  it  seem'd  too  plain, 
There  stood  th' Infernal  Schemer  ! 

Mix'd  brown  and  blue  each  visage  grew, 
Just  like  a  pullet's  gizzard  ; 

Meanwhile  the  captain's  wandering  wit. 
From  tacking  like  an  izzard, 
Bore  down  in  this  plain  course  at  last, 
"  It's  Michael  Scott— the  Wizard  !  " 

A  smile  past  o'er  the  ruddy  face, 
*'  To  see  the  poles  so  falter 
I'm  puzzled,  friends,  as  much  as  you, 
For  with  no  fiends  I  palter  ; 
Michael  I'm  not — although  a  Scott — 
My  Christian  name  is  Walter." 

Like  oil  it  fell,  that  name,  a  spell 

On  all  the  fearful  faction  ; 

The  Captain's  head  (for  he  had  read) 

Confess'd  the  Needle's  action, 

And  bow'd  to  HiM  in  wliom  the  North 

Has  lodged  its  main  attraction  ! 


A  Star  of  tlie  First  Magnitude. 


549 


Protecting  the  Fare. 


THE    DUEL* 

A    SERIOUS    BALLAD. 
"Like  the  two  Kings  of  Brentford  smelling  at  one  nosegay.'' 


In  Brentford  town  of  old  renown, 
There  lived  a  Mister  Bray, 

Who  fell  in  love  with  Lucy  Bell, 
And  so  did  Mr  Clay. 

To  see  her  ride  from  Hammersmith, 

By  all  it  was  allow'd, 
Such  fair  outsides  are  seldom  seen, 

Such  Angels  on  a  Cloud. 

Said  Mr  Bray  to  Mr  Clay, 

You  choose  to  rival  me, 
And  court  Miss  Bell,  but  there  your 
court 

No  thoroughfare  shall  be. 

Unless  you  now  give  up  your  suit, 
You  may  repent  your  love  ; 

I  who  have  shot  a  pigeon  match, 
Can  shoot  a  turtle  dove. 


Said  Mr  Clay  to  Mr  Bray, 
Your  threats  I  quite  explode  ; 

One  who  has  been  a  volunteer, 
Knows  how  to  prime  and  load. 

And  so  I  say  to  you  unless 

Your  passion  quiet  keeps, 
I  wlio  have  shot  and  hit  bulls'  eyes, 

May  chance  to  hit  a  sheep's. 

Now  gold  is  oft  for  silver  changed, 

And  that  for  copper  red  ; 
But  these  two  went  away  to  give 

Each  other  change  for  lead. 

But  first  they  sought  a  friend  a-piece, 
This  pleasant  thought  to  give — 

"When    they   were    dead,    they   thus 
should  have 
Two  seconds  still  to  live. 


So  pray  before  you  woo  her  more.  To  measure  out  the  ground  not  long 

Consider  what  you  do  ;  The  seconds  then  forbore. 

If  you  pop  aught  to  Lucy  Bell, —  And  havmg  taken  one  rash  step 

I'll  pop  it  into  you.  They  took  a  dozen  more. 

•Comic  Annual,  1831. 


550 


ODE  TO  MR  MALTHUS. 


They  n«rt  prepared  each  pistol-pan 

Against  <he  deadly  strife, 
By  puttiiii,  in  the  prime  of  death 

Against  the  prime  of  life. 

Now  all  was  ready  for  the  foes, 
But  when  they  took  their  stands, 

Fear  made  them  tremble,  so  they  found 
They  both  were  shaking  hands. 

Said  Mr  C.  to  Mr  B., 

Here  one  of  us  may  fall, 
And  like  St  Paul's  Cathedral  now, 

Be  doom'd  to  have  a  ball. 

I  do  confess  I  did  attach 
Miscoaduct  to  your  name  ; 


If  I  withdraw  the  charge,  will  then 
Your  ramrod  do  the  same  ? 

Said  Mr  B.,  I  do  agree — 

But  think  of  Honour's  Courts  I 

If  we  go  off  without  a  shot, 
There  will  be  strange  reports. 

But  look,  the  morning  now  is  bright, 
Though  cloudy  it  begun  ; 

Why  can't  we  aim  above,  as  if 
We  had  call'd  out  the  sun  ? 

So  up  into  the  harmless  air. 
Their  bullets  they  did  send; 

And  may  ail  other  duels  have 
That  upshot  in  the  end  1 


Exchanging — Receiving  the  Diflference. 


ODE  TO  MR  MALTHUS* 

My  dear,  do  pull  the  bell, 
And  pull  it  well, 
And  send  those  noisy  children  all  up  stairs, 
Now  playing  here  like  bears — 
You  George,  and  Williniii,  go  into  the  grounds, 
Charles,  James,  and  Bob  are  there, — and  take  your  string, 

Drive  horses,  or  fly  kites,  or  anything, 
You're  quite  enough  to  play  at  hare  and  hounds  ; — 
You  little  May,  and  Caroline,  and  Poll, 

Take  each  your  doll, 
And  go,  my  de.irs,  into  the  two-back  pair. 
Your  sister  Margaret's  there — 
Harriet  and  Grace,  thank  God,  are  both  at  school, 
At  far-©ff  Ponty  Pool— 

*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


ODE  TO  MR  MALTHUS. 

I  want  to  read,  but  really  can't  get  on — 
Let  the  four  twins,  Mark,  Matthew,  Luke,  and  John, 
Go — to  their  nursery — go — I  never  can 
Enjoy  my  Malthus  among  such  a  clan  ! 

Oh  Mr  Malthus,  I  agree  ' 

In  everything  I  read  with  thee  ! 

The  world's  too  full,  there  is  no  doubt, 

And  wants  a  deal  of  thinning  out, — 

It's  plain — as  plain  as  Harrow's  Steeple— 

And  I  agree  with  some  thus  far, 

Who  say  the  Queen's  too  popular, 

That  is, — she  has  too  many  people. 


5S1 


'  A  Child's  call  to  be  disposed  of. 


There  are  too  many  of  all  trades, 

Too  many  bakers. 
Too  many  every-thing-makers. 
But  not  too  many  undertakers, — 

Too  many  boys, — 
Too  many  hobby-de-hoys, — 
Too  many  girls,  men,  widows,  wives,  and  maids,— 
There  is  a  dreadful  surplus  to  demolish, 
And  yet  some  Wrongheads, 
With  thick  not  long  heads, 
Poor  metaphysicians ! 
Sign  petitions 
Capital  punishment  to  abolish  ; 
And  in  the  face  of  censuses  such  vast  ones 
New  hospitals  contrive, 
For  keeping  life  alive, 
Laying  first  stones,  the  dolts  !  instead  of  last  ones  !- 
Others,  again,  in  the  same  contrariety, 
Deem  that  of  all  Humane  Society 

They  really  deserve  thanks. 
Because  the  two  banks  of  the  Serpentine 


55*  ODE  TO  MR  MALTHUS. 

By  their  design, 
Are  Saving  Banks. 
Oh  !  were  it  given  but  to  me  to  weed 
The  human  breed, 
And  root  out  here  and  there  some  cumbering  el^ 
I  think  I  could  go  through  it. 
And  really  do  it 
With  profit  to  the  world  and  to  myself. — 


Laying  the  First  Stone  of  an  Hospital. 

For  instance,  the  unkind  among  the  Editors, 
My  debtors,  those  1  mean  to  say 
Who  cannot  or  who  will  not  pay, 

And  all  my  creditors. 
These,  for  my  own  sake,  I'd  destroy  \ 
But  for  the  world's,  and  every  one's, 

I'd  hoe  up  Mrs  G 's  two  sons. 

And  Mrs  B 's  big  little  boy, 

Call'd  only  by  herself  an  "only  joy." 
As  Mr  Irving's  chapel's  not  too  full, 
Himself  alone  I'd  pull — 
But  for  the  peace  of  years  that  have  to  run, 
I'd  make  the  Lord  Mayor's  a  perpetual  station, 
And  put  a  period  to  rotation, 


ODE  TO  MR  MALTHU&,  $53 

By  rooting  up  all  Aldermen  but  one,— 
These  are  but  hints  what  good  might  thus  be  done  1 

But  ah  !  I  fear  the  public  good 

Is  little  by  the  public  understood, — 
For  instance — if  with  flint,  and  steel,  and  tinder, 
Great  Swing,  for  once  a  philanthropic  man, 
Proposed  to  throw  a  light  upon  thy  plan, 
No  doubt  some  busy  fool  would  hinder 
His  burning  all  the  Foundling  to  a  cinder. 

Or,  if  the  Lord  Mayor,  on  an  Easter  Monday, 

The  t  wine  and  bun-day, 
Proposed  to  poison  all  the  little  Blue-coats, 
Before  they  died  by  bit  or  sup, 
Some  meddUng  Marplot  would  blow  up, 

Just  at  the  moment  critical, 

The  economy  political 
Of  saving  their  fresh  yellow  plush  and  new  coatib 

Equally  'twould  be  undone, 
Suppose  the  Bishop  of  London, 
On  that  great  day 
In  June  or  May, 
When  all  the  large  small  family  of  charity. 

Brown,  black,  or  carrotty. 
Walk  in  their  dusty  parish  shoes, 
In  too,  too  many  two-and-twos. 
To  sing  together  till  they  scare  the  walls 

Of  old  St  Paul's, 
Sitting  in  red,  grey,  green,  blue,  drab,  and  whit*^ 
Some  say  a  gratifying  sight, 
Tho'  1  think  sad — but  that's  *a  schism— r 
To  witness  so  much  pauperism — 
Suppose,  I  say,  the  Bishop  then,  to  make 
In  this  poor  overcrowded  world  more  room, 

Proposed  to  shake 
Down  that  immense  extinguisher,  the  dome- 
Some  humane  Martin  in  the  charity  Gal-vuLj 
I  fear  would  come  and  interfere. 
Save  beadle,  brat,  and  overseer. 
To  walk  back  in  their  parish  shoes, 
In  too,  too  many  two-and-twos, 
Islington— Wapping— or  Pall  Mall  way  1 

Thus,  people  hatch'd  from  goose's  egg, 
Foolishly  think  a  pest,  a  plague. 
And  in  its  face  their  doors  all  shut, 
On  hinges  oil'd  with  cajeput — 


554  ODE  TO  MR  MALTHUS. 

Drugging  themselves  with  drams  well  spiced  and  cloven, 

And  turning  pale  as  linen  rags 

At  hoisting  up  of  yellow  flags, 
While  you  and  I  are  crying  "  Orange  Boven  ! " 
Why  should  we  let  precautions  so  absorb  us, 
Or  trouble  shipping  with  a  quarantine — 
When  if  I  understand  the  thing  you  mean. 
We  ought  to  import  the  Cholera  Morbus  1 


Fancy  Portrait— Mr  Malthus. 


A  GOOD  DIRECTION* 

A  CERTAIN  gentleman,  whose  yellow  cheek 
Proclaim'd  he  had  not  been  in  living  quite 

An  anchorite — 
Indeed,  he  scarcely  ever  knew  a  well  day  ; 
At  last,  by  friends'  advice,  was  led  to  seek 
A  surgeon  of  great  note — named  Aberfeldie. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


A  GOOD  DIRECTION. 

A  ve.ry  famous  author  upon  diet, 
Who,  better  starr'd  than  alchemists  of  old, 
By  dint  of  turning  mercury  to  gold, 
Had  settled  at  his  country  house  in  quiet. 

Our  patient,  after  some  impatient  rambles 
Thro'  Enfield  roads,  and  Enfield  lanes  of  brambles^ 
At  last,  to  make  inquiry  had  the  nous,— 
"  Here,  my  good  man. 
Just  tell  me  if  you  can, 
Pray  which  is  Mr  Aberfeldie's  house  ?" 
The  man  thus  stopp'd— perusing  for  a  while 
The  yellow  visage  of  the  man  of  bile, 
At  last  made  answer,  with  a  broadish  grin  : 
"  Why,  turn  to  right— and  left — and  right  agin, 
Tiie  road's  direct— you  cannot  fail  to  go  it." 

"  But  stop  !  my  worthy  fellow  ! — one  word  more— 
From  other  houses  how  am  I  to  know  it  ! " 

**  How  ! — why  you'll  see  blue  pillars  at  the  door  1  * 


5SS 


*'Aa  AnchuritA." 


55« 


A  Leading  Article. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SPORTING* 

THE  consulter  of  Johnson's  Dictionary  under  the  term  of  Sport,  Of 
Sporting,  would  be  led  into  a  great  mistake  by  the  Doctor's 
definition.  The  word,  with  the  great  Lexicographer,  signifies  nothing 
but  Diversion,  Amusement,  Play  : — but  I  shall  submit  to  the  reader, 
with  a  few  facts,  whether  it  has  not  a  more  serious  connexion,  or  to 
speak  technically,  whether  it  should  be  Play  or  Pay. — 

When  I  was  a  young  man,  having  a  good  deal  of  ready  money,  and 
little  wit,  —  I  went  upon  the  turf.  I  began  cautiously^  and  as  I 
thought,  knowingly.  I  started  first  by  diligently  learning  the  pedi- 
gree of  every  new  colt — yet  somehow,  between  sire  and  dam,  continu- 
ally losing  the  "  pony."  My  first  experiment  was  at  Newmaiket.  By 
way  of  securing  a  leading  article,  I  backed  the  Duke  o^  Leeds,  but  the 
race  came  otf,  and  the  Duke  was  not  placed.  I  asked  eagerly  who 
was  first,  and  was  told  Forth.  The  winner  was  a  slow  but  strong 
horse,  and  I  was  informed  had  got  in  front  by  being  a  taster.  This 
was  a  puzzle,  but  I  paid  for  my  Riddlesv/orth,  and  prepared  for  the 
Derby.  By  good  luck  I  selected  an  excellent  colt  to  stand  upon — he 
had  been  tried — it  was  a  booked  thing — but  the  day  before  the  Derby 
there  was  a  family  wash,  and  the  laundress  hung  her  wet  linen  on 
Vjis  lilies.  I  paid  again.  I  took  advice  about  the  Oaks,  and  instead 
of  backing  a  single  horse,  mr.de  my  stand,  like  Ducrow,  upon  four  at 
once.  No  luck.  Terror  did  not  start — Fury  came  roaring  to  the 
post — Belle  was  told  out,  and  Comet  was  tail'd  off.  I  paid  again  — 
and  began  dabbling  in  the  Sweepstakes,  and  burning  my  fingers  with 
the  Matches.  Amongst  others,  a  bet  offered  that  I  conceived  was 
peculiarly  temptin:^,  20,000  to  20  against  Post  Obit — a  bad  horse 
indeed,  yet  such  odds  seemed  unjustifiable,  even  against  an  "  outsider." 
But  I  soon  found  my  mistake.  The  outsider  was  in  reality  an  insider, 
— filling  the  stomachs  of  somebody's  hounds. — Pay  again  !  I  resolved 
however  to  retaliate,  and  the  opportunity  presented  itself.     I  had  been 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SPORTING. 


557 


confidently  informed  thnt  Centipede  had  not  a  leg  to  stand  on,  and 
according  laid  against  him  as  thick  as  it  would  stick.  The  following 
was  the  report  of  the  race  :  '  Centipede  jumped  off  at  a  tremendous 
pace, — had  it  all  his  own  way— and  justified  his  name  by  coming  in 
a  hundred  feet  in  front.'— Pay  again  !  These  "  hollow  "  matters,  how- 
ever, fretted  me  little,  save  in  pocket.     They  were  won  easy,  and  lost 


Sweepstakes  :— "  Every  Jenny  has  a  Jockey." 


to  match— but  the  "  near  things"  were  unbearable.     To  lose  only  by 

half  a  head,— a  few  inches  of  horse-flesh  !     I  remember  two  occasions 

when  Giraffe  won  by  "  a 

neck,"  and   Elephant  by 

"  a  nose."     I  was  almost 

tempted  to  blow  out  my 

brains  by  the  nose,  and 

to   hang  myself  by   the 

neck  ! 

On  one  of  those  doubt- 
ful occasions,  when  it  is 
difficult  to  name  the 
winner,  I  thought  I  could 
determine  the  point,  from 
some  peculiar  advantage 
of  situation,  and  offered 

to    back   my    opinion.       I  .j.^^  Cows'  Regatta. 

laid    that    Cobbler    had  ,    ,     -j   j  ..i,  * 

won,  and  it  was  taken  ;  but  a  signal  from  a  friend  decided  me  that 
I  was  wrong,  and  by  way  of  hedge,  I  offered  to  lay  that  Tmker  was 


558  THE  PLEASURES  OF  SPOR  TING. 

the   first  horse.      This  was  taken  like  the   other,   and  the  judges 
declared  a  dead  rob — I  mean  to  say  a  dead  heat. — Pay  again  ! 

A  likelier  chance  next  offered.  There  was  a  difference  of  opinion, 
whether  Bohea  would  start  for  the  Cup,  and  his  noble  owner  had 
privately  and  positively  assured  me  that  he  would.  I  therefore  betted 
freely  that  he  would  rim  for  the  Plate,  and  he  walked  over  ! — Pay 
again  !  N.B.  I  found  when  it  was  too  late  that  I  should  not  have 
paid  in  this  ease,  but  I  did. 

The  great  St  Leger  was  still  in  reserve.  Somewhat  desperate,  I 
betted  round,  in  sums  of  the  same  shape,  and  my  best  winner  became 
first  favourite  at  the  start.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  sight  !  I  saw 
him  come  in  ten  lengths  a-head  of  everything — hollow  !  hollow  !  I 
had  no  voice  to  shout  with,  and  it  was  fortunate.  Man  and  horse 
went,  as  usual,  after  the  race  to  be  weighed,  and  were  put  into  the 
scale.  They  rose  a  little  in  our  eyes,  and  sunk  proportionably  in  our 
estimation.  Roguery  was  sniffed — the  Jockey  Club  was  appealed  to, 
and  it  gave  the  stakes  to  the  second  horse.  All  bets  went  with  the 
stakes,  and  so—  Pay  again  ! 

It  was  time  to  cut 
the  turf — and  I  was 
in  a  mood  for  burn- 
ing it  too.  I  was 
done  by  Heath,  but 
the  impression  on 
my  fortune  was  not 
in  the  finished  style. 
1  now  turned  my  at- 
tention to  aquatics, 
and  having  been  un- 
fortunate at  the  One 
Tun,  tried  my  luck 
in  a  vessel  of  twenty. 
I  became  a  member 
of  a  Yacht  Club, 
made  matches  which 
I  lost — and  sailed 
for  a  Cup  at  the 
Cowes'  Regatta,  but 
carried  away  nothing 
but  my  own  bow- 
sprit.     Other  boats 


A  Party  of  Pleasure. 


showed  more  speed,  but  mine  most  bottom  ;  for  after  the  match  it 
upset,  and  I  was  picked  up  by  a  party  of  fishermen,  who  spared  my 
life  and  took  all  I  had,  by  way  of  teaching  me,  that  a  preserving  is  not 
a  saving. — Pay  again  ! 

It  was  time  to  dispose  of  The  Lttcky  Lass.  I  left  her  to  the  mate, 
with  peremptory  orders  to  make  a  sale  of  her  ; — an  instruction  he  ful- 
filled by  making  all  the  sail  on  her  he  could,  and  disposing  of  her — 
by  contract — to  a  rock,  whde  he  was  threading  the  Needles.  In  the 
meantime  I  betook  myself  to  the  chase.  Sir  W.  W.  had  just  cut  his 
back,  and  I  undertook  to  deal  with  the  dogs  : — but  I  found  dog's  meat 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SPORTING. 


559 


a  dear  item,  though  my  friends  killed  my  hunters  for  me,  and  I 
boil'd  my  own  horses.  The  subscribers,  moreover,  were  not  punctual, 
and  whatever  differences  fell  out,  I  was  obliged  to  make  them 
up. — Pay  again  1    At  last   I   happened  to   have  a  dispute   with  a 


'* Pointer  and  Disappointer, 


brother  Nimrod  as  to  the  capability  of  his  Brown  and  mine,  and 
we  agreed  to  decide  their  respective  rates,  as  church  rates,  by  a 
steeple  chase.     The  wager  was  heavy.     I  rode  for  the  wrong  steeple 


A  Steeple  Chase. 

— leapt  a  dozen  gates — and  succeeded  in  clearing  my  own  pocket- 
Pay  again  ! 

It  was  now  necessary  to  retrench.     I  gave  up  hunting  the  county, 


56o 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  SPORTING. 


lest  the  county  should  repay  it  in  kind,  for  I  was  now  getting  into  its 
debt.  I  laid  down  my  horses  and  took  up  a  gun,  leased  a  shooting- 
box,  and  rented  a  manor,  somewhat  too  far  north  for  me,  for  after  a 
few  moves,  I  ascertained  that  the  game  had  been  drawn  before  I  took 
to  it.  It  was  useless,  therefore,  to  try  to  beat — the  dogs,  for  want  of 
birds,  began  to  point  at  butterflies.  My  friends,  however,  looked  for 
grouse,  so  I  bought  them  and  paid  the  carriage. — Pay  again  ! 

Other  experiments  I  must  abridge.  I  found  pugilistic  sporting,  as 
usual — good  with  both  hands  at  receiving  : — at  cocking  the  "  in-goes  " 
were  far  exceeded  by  the  "  out-goes  :  " — and  at  the  gaming  table,  that 
it  was  very  difficult^to  pay  my  way — particularly  in  coming  back.  In 
short  I  learned  pages  of  meanings  at  school  without  trouble, — but  the 
signification  of  that  one  word,  Sporting,  in  manhood  has  been  a  long 
and  an  uncomfortable  lesson,  and  I  have  still  an  unconquerable  relish 
of  its  bitterness,  in  spite  of  the  considerate  attentions  of  my  friends  .— 

"  From  Sport  to  Sport  they  hurry  me 
To  banish  my  regret, 
And  when  they  win  a  smile  from  me 
They  think  that  I  forget." 


56i 


A  Political  Union. 


THERE'S  NO  ROMANCE  IN  THAT* 

"  So,  while  I  fondly  imagined  we  were  deceiving  my  relations,  and  flattered  myself  that  t 
should  outwit  and  incense  them  all,  behold,  my  hopes  are  to  be  crushed  at  once  by  my 
aunt's  consent  and  approbation,  and  I  am  myself  the  only  dupe,  But  here,  sir, — here  is  the 
picture!  " — Lvdia  Languish. 


O  DAYS  of  old,  O  days  of  knights, 

Of  tourneys  and  of  tilts, 

Wiaen   love   was   balk'd   and   valour 

stalk'd 
On  high  heroic  stilts — 
Where    are     ye     gone? — adventures 

cease, 
The  world  gets  tame  and  flat, — 
We've  nothing  now  but  New  Police — 
There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 


I  wish  I  ne'er  had  learn'd  to  read, 
Or  Radchffe  how  to  write  ; 
That  Scott  had  been  a  boor  on  Tweed, 
And  Lewis  cloister'd  quite ! 

*  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


Would  I  had  never  drunk  so  deep 
Of  dear  Miss  Porter's  vat ; 
I  only  turn  to  life,  and  weep — 
There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 


No  bandits  lurk — no  turban'd  Turk 

To  Tunis  bears  me  off  ; 

I  hear  no  noises  in  the  night 

Except  my  mother's  cough  ; 

No    Bleeding    Spectre    haunts    the 

house  , 
No  shape,  but  owl  or  bat, 
Come  flitting  after  moth  or  mouse— 
There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 


2  N 


562 


THERE'S  NO  ROMANCE  IN  THAT. 


I  have  not  any  grief  profound, 

Or  secrets  to  confess  ; 

My  story  would  not  fetch  a  pound 

For  A.  K.  Newman's  press  ; 

Instead  of  looking  thin  and  pale, 

I'm  growing  red  and  fat, 

As  if  I  lived  on  beef  and  ale — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

It's  very  hard,  by  land  or  sea 

Some  strange  event  I  court, 

But  nothing  ever  comes  to  me 

That's  worth  a  pen's  report  : 

It  really  made  my  temper  chafe, 

Each  coast  that  I  was  at, 

I  vow'd  and  rail'd,  and  came  home 

safe — 
There's  no  Romance  in  that  ? 


The  only  time  I  had  a  chance, 

At  Brighton  one  fine  day, 

My  cliesinut  mare  began  to  prance, 

Took  fright,  and  ran  away  ; 

Alas  !  no  Captain  of  the  Tenth 

To  stop  my  steed  came  pat ; 

A  butcher  caught  the  rein  at  length— 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

Love — even  love — goes  smoothly  on 

A  railway  sort  of  track — 

No  flinty  sire,  no  jealous  Don  ! 

No  hearts  upon  the  rack ; 

No  Polydore,  no  Theodore — 

His  ugly  name  is  Mat, 

Flam    Matthew    Pratt,  and    nothing 

more — 
There's  no  Romance  in  that  1 


Tom  Bowling. 


He  is  not  dark,  he  is  not  tall. 
His  forehead's  rather  low. 
He  is  not  pensive — not  at  all. 
But  smiles  his  teeth  to  show  ; 


Ho  comes  from  Wales,  and  yet  in  size 

Is  really  but  a  sprat, 

With  sandy  hair  and  greyish  eyes — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 


THERE'S  NO  ROMANCE  IN  THAT, 


563 


He  wears  no  plumes  or  Spanish  cloaks, 
Or  long  sword  hanging  down  ; 
He  dresses  much  like  other  folks, 
And  commonly  in  brown  ; 
His  collar  he  will  not  discard, 
Or  give  up  his  cravat. 
Lord  Byron-like — he's  not  a  bard — 
There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

He's  rather  bald,  his  sight  is  weak, 

He's  deaf  in  either  drum  ; 

Without  a  lisp  he  cannot  speak. 

But  then— he's  worth  a  plum. 

He  talks  of  stocks  and  three  per  cents 

By  way  of  private  chat. 

Of  Spanish  bonds,  and    shares,  ai;d 

rents — 
There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

I  sing — no  matter  what  I  sing, 

Di  Tanti,  or  Crudel, 

Tom  Bowhng,  or  God  save  the  King, 

Di  Placer — All's  well  ; 

He  knows  no  more  about  a  voice 

For  singing  than  a  gnat  ; 

And  as  to  music  "  has  no  choice" — 

There's  no  Romance  in  that  1 


Of  light  guitar  I  cannot  boast, 

He  never  serenades  ; 

He  writes,  and  sends  it  by  the  post, 

1  le  doesn't  bribe  the  maids  • 

No  stealth,  no  hempen  ladder — no  ! 

He  comes  with  loud  rat-tat. 

That  startles  half  of  Bedford  Row^ 

There's  no  Romance  in  that ! 

He  comes  at  nine  in  time  to  choose 
His  coffee  — just  two  cups. 
And  talks  with  Pa  about  the  news. 
Repeats  debates,  and  sups. 
John  helps  him  with  his  coat  aright. 
And  Jenkins  hands  his  hat ; 
My    lover    bows,    and    says   good- 
night— 
There's  no  Romance  in  that  1 

I've  long  had  Pa's  and  Ma's  consent^ 

My  aunt  she  quite  approves. 

My  lirother  wishes  joy  from  Kent, 

None  try  to  thwart  our  loves  ; 

On  Tuesday,  Reverend  Mr  Mace 

Will  make  me  Mrs  Pratt, 

or  Number  Twenty,  Sussex  Place— 

There's  no  Romance  in  that. 


Soffisttung  above  the  Commoo. 


5^4 


THE  ABSTRACTION.* 

*— "Draws  honey  forth  that  drives  men  mad." — Lalla  Rookk» 

THE  speakers  were  close  under  the  bow-window  of  the  inn,  and  as 
the  sash  was  open,  Curiosity  herself  could  not  help  overhear- 
ing their  conversation.  So  I  laid  down  Mrs  Opie's  "  Illustraiions  of 
L\  ing," — which  I  had  found  lying  in  the  inn  window, — and  took  a 
glance  at  the  partners  in  the  dialogue. 

One  of  them  was  much  older  than  the  other,  and  much  taller  ;  he 
seemed  to  have  grown  like  quick-set.     The  other  was  thick-set. 

"  I  tell  you,  Thomas,"  said  Quickset,  "you  are  a  flat.  Before  you've 
been  a  day  in  London,  they'll  have  the  teeth  out  of  your  very  head. 
As  for  me,  I  ve  been  there  twice,  and  know  what's  what.  Take  my 
advice  ;  never  tell  the  truth  on  no  account.  Questions  is  only  asked  by 
way  of  pumping  ;  and  you  ought  always  to  put  'em  on  a  wrong  scent." 

"  But  aunt  is  to  send  her  man  to  meet  me  at  the  Old  Bailey,"  said 
Thickset,  "  and  to  show  me  to  her  house.  Now,  if  a  strange  man  says 
to  me,  'Young  man,  are  you  Jacob  Giles  ?' — an't  I  to  tell  him  ?" 

"  By  no  manner  of  means,"  answered  Quickset  ;  "  say  you  are  quite 
another  man.  No  one  but  a  flat  would  tell  his  name  to  a  stranger 
about  London.  You  see  how  I  answered  them  last  night  about  what 
was  in  the  waggon.  Brocms,  says  I,  nothing  else.  A  flat  would  have 
told  them  there  was  the  honey-pots  underneath  ;  but  I've  been  to 
London  before,  and  know  a  thing  or  two." 

"  London  must  be  a  desperate  place,"  said  Thickset. 

"  Mortal  !  "  said  Quickset  ;  "  fobs  and  pockets  are  nothing  !  Your 
watch  is  hardly  sale  if  you  carried  it  in  your  inside,  and  as  for 
money" 

"  I'm  almost  sorry  I  left  Berkshire,"  said  Thickset. 

"  Poo — poo  !  "  said  Quickset,  "  don't  be  afeard.  I'll  look  after  ye  ; 
cheat  me,  and  they've  only  one  more  to  cheat.  Only  mind  my  advice  : 
Don't  say  anything  of  your  own  head,  and  don't  oliject  to  anything 
/  say.  If  I  say  black's  white,  don't  contradict.  Mark  that.  Say 
everything  as  I  say." 

"  i  understand  what  you  mean,"  said  Thickset ;  and,  with  this  lesson 
in  his  shock  head,  he  be:^an  lo  busy  himself  about  the  waggon,  while 
his  comrade  went  to  the  stable  for  the  horses.  At  last  Old  Ball 
emerged  from  the  stable-door  with  the  head  of  Old  Dumpling  resting 
on  his  crupper  ;  wiien  a  yell  rose  from  the  rear  of  the  wag;_;on,  that 
startled  even  Number  55  at  the  Bush  Inn,  at  Staines,  and  brought 
the  company  running  from  the  remotest  box  in  its  retired  tea-garden. 

''In  the  name  of  everything,"  said  the  landlord,  "what's  the 
matter  ?" 

"  It's  gone — all  gone,  by  goles  !"  cried  Thickset,  with  a  bewildered 
lo"k  at  Quickset,  as  if  doubtful  whether  he  ouglit  not  to  have  said  it 
was  not  gone. 

"  You   don't  mean   to   say  the  honey-pots  ! "   said  Quickset,  with 

•  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


THE  ABSTRACTION. 


565 


some  alarm,  and  letting  go  the  bridle  of  Old  Ball,  who  very  quietly 
led  Old  Dumpling  back  again  into  the  stable  ;  "you  don't  mean  to 
say  the  honey-pots  ?  " 

"  I  dont  mean  to  say  the  honey-pots,"  said  Thickset,  literally  fol« 
lowing  the  instructions  he  had  received. 

"  What  made  you  screech  out  then  ? "  said  Quickset,  appealing  to 
Thickset. 

"What  made  me  screech  out  then?"  said  Thickset,  appealing  to 
Quickset,  and  determined  to  say  as  he  said. 

"  The  fellow's  drunk,"  said  the  landlord  ;  "  the  ale's  got  into  his  head." 

"Ale  !  what  ale  has  he  had  .''"  inquired  Quickset,  rather  anxiously. 

"Ale  !  what  ale  have  I  had?"  echoed  Thickset,  looking  sober  with 
all  his  might. 

"He's  not  drunk,"  shouted  Quickset;  "there's  something  the 
matter." 

"  I'm  not  drunk  ;  there  is  something  the  matter,"  bellowed  Thickset, 
and  with  his  fore-finger  he  pointed  to  the  waggon. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  the  honey,"  said  Quickset,  his  voice  falling. 

"  I  do)it  mean  to  say  the  honey,"  said  Thickset,  his  caution  rising. 


A  Tea-Garden. 

The  gesture  of  Thickset,  however,  had  conveyed  some  vague  notion 
of  danger  to  his  companion  With  the  agihty  of  a  cat  he  climbed  on 
the  waggon,  and,  with  the  superhuman   activity  of  a  demon,  sooa 


566 


THE  ABSTRACTION. 


pitched  down  every  bundle  of  besoms.  There  is  a  proverb  that  "new 
brooms  sweep  clean,"  and  they  certainly  seemed  to  have  swept  every 
particle  of  honey  clean  out  of  the  waggon. 

Quickset  was  thunderstruck  ;  he  stood  gazing  at  the  empty  vehicle 
in  silence,  while  his  hands  wandered  wildly  through  his  hair,  as  if  in 
se.irch  of  the  absent  combs. 

When  he  found  words  at  last,  they  were  no  part  of  the  Litany. 
Words,  however,  did  not  suffice  to  vent  his  passion  ;  and  he  began  to 
stamp  and  dance  about,  till  the  mud  of  the  stable-yard  flew  round  like 
anything  you  like. 

"  A  plague  take  him  and  his  honey-pots,  too,"  said  the  chamber- 
maid, as  she  looked  at  a  new  pattern  on  her  best  gingham. 

"  It's  no  matter,"  said  Quickset,  "  I  won't  lose  it  The  house  must 
stand  the  damage.     Mr  Bush,  I  shall  look  to  you  for  the  money." 

"  He  shall  look  to  you  for  the  money,"  da-capo'd  Thickset. 

''  You  may  look  till  Doomsday,"  said  the  landlord.  "  It's  all  your 
own  fault ;  I  thoui^ht  nobody  would  steal  brooms.  If  you  had  told 
me  there  was  honey,  I  would  have  put  the  waggon  under  lock 
and  key " 

"Why,  there  was  honey,"  said  Quickset  and  Thickset. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Mr  Bush.  "  You  said  last  night  in  the 
kitchen  there  was  nothing  but  brooms." 

"  I  heard  him,"  said  John  Ostler  ;  "  I'll  take  my  oath  to  his  very 
words  ! " 

"And  so  will  I,"  roared  the  chambermaid,  glancing  at  her  damaged 
gown. 

"  What  of  that  ?  "  said  Quickset ;  "  I  know  I  said  there  was  nothing 
but  brooms." 

"  I  know,"  said  Thickset,  "  I'm  positive  he  said  there  was  nothing 
but  brooms." 


Stage  Effect. 


"  He  confesses  it  himself,"  said  the  landlady. 

"  And  his  own  man  speaks  agin  him,"  said  the  chambermaid. 


MILLER  REDIVIVUS.  567 

**I  saw  the  wagcjon  come  in,  and  it  didn't  seem  to  have  any  honey 
In  it,"  said  the  head  waiter. 

"  Maybe  the  flies  have  eaten  it,"  said  the  postilion. 

"  I've  seen  two  chaps  the  very  moral  of  them  two  at  the  bar  of  the 
Old  Bailey,"  said  Boots. 

"  It's  a  swindle,  it  is,"  said  the  landlady,  "  and  Mr  Bush  sha'n't  pay 
a  farthing." 

"  They  deserve  tossing  in  a  blanket,"  said  the  chambermaid. 

**  Duck  'em  in  the  horsepond,"  shouted  John  Ostler. 

*'  I  think,"  whispered  Thickset,  "  they  are  making  themselves  up 
for  mischief!" 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Quickset  again  lugged  Old  Ball  and 
Old  Dumpling  from  the  stable,  while  his  companion  tossed  the  brooms 
into  the  waggon.  As  soon  as  possible  thev  drove  out  of  the  unlucky 
yard,  and  as  they  passed  under  the  arch,  I  heard  for  the  last  time  the 
voice  of  Thickset  : 

"You've  been  to  London  before,  and  to  be  sure  know  best;  but 
somehow,  to  my  mind,  the  telling  the  untruth  don't  seem  to  answer." 

The  only  reply  was  a  thwack,  like  the  report  of  a  pistol,  on  the 
crupper  of  each  of  the  horses.  The  poor  anim.ils  broke  directly  into 
something  like  a  canter  ;  and  as  the  waggon  turned  a  corner  of  the 
street,  I  shut  down  the  sash,  and  resumed  my  "  Illustrations  of  Lying." 


MILLER  REDIVIVUS* 

•He  U  bccoaw  already  a  very  promising  miller." — BelCs  Life  m  Lorndgm 

I  WAS  walking  very  leisurely  one  evening  down  Cripplegate,  wheh  I 
overtook — who  could  help  overtaking  him  ?— a  lame,  elderly  gentle- 
man, who,  by  the  nature  of  his  gait,  appeared  to  represent  the  VV^ard. 
Like  certain  lots  at  auctions,  he  seemed  always  going,  but  never  gone: 
it  was  that  kind  of  march  that,  from  its  slowness,  is  emphatically  called 
halting.  Gout,  in  fact,  had  got  him  into  a  sad  hobble,  and,  like  terror, 
made  his  flesh  creep. 

There  was,  notwithstanding,  a  lurking  humorousness  in  his  face,  in 
spite  of  pace,  that  reminded  you  of  Quick  or  Listen  in  0/d  Rapid, 
You  saw  that  he  was  not  slow,  at  least,  at  a  quirk  or  quip, — not  b.ick- 
ward  at  repartee, — not  behindhand  with  his  jest, — in  short,  that  he  was 
a  great  wit  though  he  could  not  jump. 

There  was  something,  besides,  in  his  physiognomy,  as  well  as  his 
dress  and  figure,  that  strongly  indicated  his  locality.  He  was  palpably 
a  dweller,  if  not  a  native,  ot  that  clime  distinguished  equally  by  "the 
rage  of  the  vulture,  and  the  love  of  the  turtle," — the  good  old  City  of 
London.     But  an  accident  soon  confirmed  my  surmises. 

In  plucking  out  his  handkerchief  from  one  of  his  capacious  coat- 
pockets,  the  bandana  tumbled  out  with  a  large  roll  of  manuscript  ; 
and  as  he  proceeded  a  good  hundred  yards  before  he  discovered  the 

•  Comic  Annual,  1 831. 


568 


MILLER  REDIVIVUS. 


loss,  I  had  ample  time  before  he  struggled  back,  in  his  Crawly  Com- 
mon pace,  to  the  spot,  to  give  the  pap&r  a  hasty  perusal,  and  even  to 
make  a  few  random  extracts.     The  MS.  purported  to  be  a  Collection 


Fancy  Portrait ; — Mr  Hobler. 

of  Ci^^c  Facetiae  from  the  Mayoralty  of  Alderman  *  *  *  *  up  to  the 
present  time  :  and,  from  certain  hints  scattered  up  and  down,  the 
Recorder  evidently  considered  himself  to  have  been,  for  wise  saws  or 
witty,  the  top  sawyer.  Not  to  forestall  the  pleasure  of  self-publication, 
1  shiill  avoid  all  that  are,  or  may  be,  his  own  sayings,  and  give  only 
iwc^jeux  de  mots  as  have  a  distinct  parentage. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  MS. 

"Alderman  F.  was  very  hard  of  hearing,  and  Alderman  B.  was  very 
hard  on  his  infirmity.  One  day  a  dumb  man  was  brought  to  the 
Justice-room  charged  with  passing  bad  notes.  B.  declined  to  enter 
upon  the  case.  '  Go  to  Alderman  F.,'  he  said  ;  '  when  a  dumb  man 
utters,  a  deaf  6ne  ought  to  hear  it.' " 


"  B.  was  equally  hard  on  Alderman  V.'s  linen-drapery.  One  day 
he  came  late  into  court.  '  I  have  just  come,'  said  he,  'from  V.'s  villa. 
He  had  family  prayers  last  night,  and  began  thus — Now  let  us  reail 
the  Psalm  Nunc  Dimities'" 


MILLER  REDIVIVUS.  569 

"Old  S.,  the  tobacconist  of  Holborn  Hill,  wore  his  own  hair  tied 
behind  in  a  queue,  and  had  a  favourite  seat  in  the  shop,  with  his  back 
to  the  window.  Alderman  B.  pointed  him  out  once  tome.  'Look  I 
there  he  is,  as  usual,  advertising  ];\\s  pigtail^' 

"Alderman  A.  was  never  very  remarkable  for  his  skill  in  ortho- 
graphy. A  note  of  his  writing  is  still  extant,  requesting  a  brother 
magistrate  to  preside  for  him,  and  giving,  literathii,  the  following  rea 
son  for  his  own  absence  : — '  Jackson  the  painter  is  to  take  me  off  in  my 
Rob  of  Office,  and  I  am  gone  to  give  him  a  cit!  His  pronunciation  was 
equally  original.  I  remember  his  asking  Alderman  C,  just  before  the 
9th  of  November,  whether  he  should  have  any  men  in  armour  in  his 
shewV 


"  Guildhall  and  its  images  were  always  uppermost  with  Alderman 
A.  It  was  he  who  so  misquoted  Shakespeare  : — 'A  parish  beadle, 
when  he's  trod  upon,  feels  as  much  corporal  suffering  as  Gog  and 
Magog.'" 

"A  well-known  editor  of  a  morning  paper  inquired  of  Alderman  B. 
one  day,  what  he  thought  of  his  journal.  '  I  like  it  all,'  said  the  alder- 
man, '  but  it's  Broken  English'  The  editor  stared  and  asked  for  an 
explanation.     '  Why,  the  List  of  Bankrupts,  to  be  sure  ! ' " 

"When  Alderman  B.  was  elected  Mayor,  to  give  greater  ^clat  to 
his  banquet,  he  sent  for  Dobbs,  the  most  celebrated  cook  of  that  time, 
to  take  the  command  of  the  kitchen.  Dobbs  was  quite  an  enthusiast 
in  his  art,  and  some  culinary  deficiencies  on  the  part  of  the  ordinary 
Mansion-House  professors  driving  him  at  last  to  desperation,  he  leapt 
upon  one  of  the  dressers,  and  began  an  oration  to  them,  by  this  ener- 
getic apostrophe, — '  Gentlemen  !  do  you  call  yourselves  cooks  !"* 

"  One  of  the  present  household  titles  in  the  Mansion-House  esta- 
blishment was  of  singular  origin.  When  the  celebrated  men  in  armour 
were  first  exhibited,  Alderman  P.,  who  happened  to  be  with  his  Lord- 
ship previous  to  the  procession,  was  extremely  curious  in  examining 
the  suits  of  mail,  &c.,  expressing,  at  the  same  time,  an  eager  desire  to 
try  on  one  of  the  helmets.  The  Mayor,  with  his  usual  consideration, 
insisted  on  first  sending  it  down  to  the  kitchen  to  be  aired,  after  which 
process  the  ambition  of  the  alderman  met  with  its  gratification.  For 
some  little  time  he  did  not  perceive  any  inconvenience  from  his  new 
beaver,  but  by  degrees  the  enclosure  became  first  uncomfortably,  and 
then  intolerably,  warm  ;  the  confined  heat  being  aggravated  by  his 
violent  but  vain  struggles  to  undo  the  unaccustomed  fastenings.  An 
armourer  was  obliged  to  be  sent  for  before  his  face  could  be  let  out, 
red  and  rampant  as  a  Brentford  lion  from  its  iron  cage.  It  appeared, 
that  in  the  hurry  of  the  pageant,  the  chief  cook  had  clapped  the 
casque  upon  the  fire,  and  thus  found  out  a  recipe  for  stewmg  an  alder- 
man's head  in  its  own  steam,  and  for  which  feat  he  has  retained  tha 
title  of  the  head-cook  ever  since  !" 


570 


A  ZOOLOGICAL  REPORT. 


"  G.,  the  Common-council-man,  wns  n  Warden  of  his  own  company, 

the  Merchant  Tailors'.  At  one  of  their  frequent  festivals,  he  took 
with  him,  to  the  dinner,  a  relation,  an  officer  of  the  Tenth  Foot.  By 
some  blunder,  the  soldier  was  taken  for  one  of  the  fraternitv,  but  G. 
hastened  to  correct  the  mistake  : — '  Gentlemen,  this  isn't  one  of  the 
Ninth  pcrts  of  a  man — he's  one  of  the  Tenth  !'" 

"  One  day  there  was  a  dispute,  as  to  the  difficulty  of  cntch-singing, 
Alderman  B.  struck  in,  '  Go  to  Cheshire  the  Hangman — he'll  prove 
to  you  there's  a  good  deal  of  Execution  in  a  CaichJ"' 


"A  Report  on  the  Farm." 


A  ZOOLOGICAL  REPORT* 

To  Harvey  WilNattis,  Esq.,  Regent's  Terrace,  Portland Parh 
t 

HONNERDSUR,— Beingm;iida  Feller  of  the  Zoological  Satietyi 
and  I  may  say  by  your  Honner's  mcens,  threw  the  carrachter 
your  Humbel  was  favered  with,  and  witch  provd  sattisfacktry  to  the 
Burds  and  Bests,  considring  I  was  well  quailifid  threw  having  Bean 
for  so  menny  hears  Hed  Guardner  to  your  Honner,  besides  lookm 
arter  the  Pi;;s  and  Poltry.  lie<^s  to  axnolige  my  great  fullness  for  the 
Sam,  and  ham  quit  cumfittable  and  happy,  sow  much  sow  as  wen   I 

*  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


A  ZOOLOGICAL  REPORT,  57? 

ham  amung  the  Anymills  to  reckin  myself  like  Addam  in  Parodies, 
let  cdone  my  Velveteens. 

Honnerd  Sur,— awar  of  your  parslialty  for  Liv  Stox  and  Kettle 
Breading,  ham  indust  to  faver  witli  a  Statement  of  wat  is  dun  at  the 
F.irm,  havin  tacken  provintial  Noats  wile  I  was  at  Kings-ton  with  a 
Pekin  elefunt  for  chainges  of  Hair.  As  rcspex  a  curacy  beg  to  say, 
tho  the  Sectary  drau  d  up  his  Report  from  his  hone  datums  and  mem- 
morandusses,  and  never  set  hise)es  on  my  M.E.S.S.,  yet  we  has  tallys 
to  our  tails  in  the  Mane. 

Honnerd  Sur, — I  will  sit  out  with  the  Qndripids,  tho  weave  add  the 
wust  lux  with  them.  Scarse  anny  of  the  Anymills  with  fore  legs  has 
moor  nor  one  Carf.  Has  to  the  Wapnity  Dears,  hits  wus  than  the 
Babby  afore  King  SoUyman,  but  their  his  for  one  Intel  Dear  betwin 
five  femail  she  hinds.  The  Sambo  Dear  as  was  sent  by  Mr  Spring 
was  so  unnatral  has  to  heat  up  her  Foin  and  in  consequins  the  Sing- 
Sing  is  of  no  use  for  the  lullabis.  Has  for  Corsichan  hits  moor  Boney 
nor  ever.  But  the  Axis  on  innqueries  as  too  littel  Axes  about  a  munth 
hold.  The  Neil  Gow  has  increst  one  Carf,  but  their  his  no  Foles  to 
the  Qunggys.  Their  his  too  littel  Zebry  but  one  as  not  rum  to  grow  ; 
the  Report  says,  "  the  Mail  Owen  to  the  Nessessary  Confinement  in 
regard  to  Spaice  is  verry  smal.'' 

Honnerd  Sur,  the  Satiety  is  verry  rich  in  Assis,  boath  Commun 
assis  and  uncommon  assis,  and  as  the  Report  recumends  will  do  my 
Inndever  to  git  the  Maltese  Cross  for  your  Honncr.  The  Kangroses 
as  reerd  up  a  large  smal  fammily  but  looks  to  be  ill  nust  and  not  well 
put  to  there  feat,  and  at  the  surjesting  of  a  femail  Feller  too  was  put 
out  to  the  long  harmd  Babboon  to  dry  nus,  but  she  was  too  voilent  and 
dandled  the  pure  things  todeth.  The  infunt  Zebew  is  all  so  ded  owen 
to  Atemps  with  a  backbord  to  prevent  groing  out  of  the  sholders,  boath 
parrents  being  defourmd  with  umphs  ;  but  the  spin  as  is  suposed  was 
hert  in  the  exspearmint,  and  it  sudenly  desist.  Mr  Wallack  will  be 
glad  to  here  the  Wallachian  Sheap  has  add  sicks  lams,  but  one  was 
pisened  by  eating  the  ewes  in  the  garden  witch  is  fattle  to  kattle.  Has 
to  Gots  we  was  going  on  prospus  in  the  Kiddy  line,  but  the  Billy  Gots 
becum  so  vishus  and  did  so  menny  butts  a  weak,  we  was  obleeged  to 
do  away  with  the  Entire.  As  regards  Rabits  a  contiguous  dissorder 
havin  got  into  the  Stox,  we  got  rid  of  the  Hole  let  alone  one  Do  and 
Brewd,  witch  was  all  in  good  Helth  up  to  Good  Fridy  wen  the  Mother 
brekfisted  on  her  bunnis.  The  increas  in  the  Groth  of  Hairs  as  bean 
maid  an  object,  and  the  advice  tacken  of  Mr  Prince  and  Mr  Roland, 
who  recumendid  Killin  one  of  the  Bares  for  the  porpus  of  Greece. 
We  hav  a  grate  number  of  ginny.pigs — their  is  moor  than  twenty  of 
them  in  one  Pound. 

About  Struthus  Burds  the  Ostreaches  is  in  perfic  helth  and  full  of 
Plums.  The  femail  Hen  lade  too  egs  wile  the  Committy  was  sittin 
and  we  hop  they  will  atch,  as  we  put  them  under  a  she  Hemew  as 
was  sittin  to  Mr  Harvy,  We  propos  breading  Busturds  xeot  we  hav 
not  got  a  singel  suecieman  of  the  specious.  Galnatious  Burds.  I  am 
•sory  to  say  The  Curryso  has  not  bread.  Hits  the  moor  disapinting 
as  we  considder  these  Birds  as  our  Crax.  We  sucksided  in  razing  a 
grate  menny  Turkys  and  some  iutresting  expeariniints  was  maid  on 


572  A  ZOOLOGICAL  REPORT. 

them  by  the  Cotnmitty  and  the  Counsel  on  Ciismus  day.     Liclcwise 

on  Peltry  Fouls  with  regard  to  there  being  of  Utility  for  the  Tabel 
and  "  under  the  latter  head  "  the  report  informs  "  sum  results  hav  bean 
obtained  witch  air  considdered  very  satisfactry,"  but  their  will  be  more 
degested  trials  of  the  subjex  as  the  Report  says  "  the  expearimints 
must  be  repetid  in  order  to  istablish  the  accuracy  of  the  deduckshuns." 
Wat  is  remarkable  the  hens  pressented  by  Mr  Crockford  hav  not  provd 
grate  layers  tho  provided  with  a  Better  Yard  and  plentey  of  Turf.  VVe 
hav  indevourd  to  bread  the  grate  Cok  of  the  Wud  onely  we  have  no 
Wud  for  him  to  be  Cok  of — and  now  for  aquotic  Warter  Burds  we 
hav  wite  Swons  but  they  hav  not  any  cygnitures,  and  the  Black  is  very 
unrisenable  as  to  expens,  but  Mr  Hunt  has  offerdto  black  one  very  lo 
on  condishun  hits  not  aloud  to  go  into  the  Warter.  The  Polish  swons 
wood  hav  bread  onely  they  did  not  lay.  The  Satiety  contanes  a  grate 
number  of  Gease  and  witch  thriv  all  most  as  well  as  they  wood  on  a 
commun  farm  and  the  Sam  with  Dux.  We  wonted  to  have  dukelings 
from  the  Mandereen  Dux  but  they  shook  there  Heds.  Too  ears  a  go 
a  qantitty  of  flownders  and  also  a  qantitty  of  heals  of  witch  an  exact 
acount  is  recordid  wear  turned  into  one  of  the  Ponds  but  there  State 
as  not  bean  looked  into  since  they  wear  plaiced  their  out  of  unwilling- 
nes  to  disturb  the  Hotter.  At  pressent  their  exists  in  one  Pond  a  stock 
of  Karps  and  in  too  others  a  number  of  Gould  Fish  of  the  commun 
Sort.  The  number  left  as  bean  correcly  tacken  and  the  ammount 
checkt  by  the  Pellycanes  and  Herrins  and  Spunbills  and  Guls 
and  other  piskiverous  Burds.  Looking  at  the  hole  of  the  Farm  in  one 
Pint  of  Vue  we  hav  ben  most  suckcesful  with  Rabits  and  Poltry  and 
Piggins  and  Ginny  Pigs  but  the  breading  of  sich  being  well  none  to 
SkuUboys,  I  beg  as  to  their  methodistical  principals  to  refer  your 
Honner  to  Master  Gorge  wen  he  cums  home  for  the  Holedays.  I  fur- 
got  to  say  that  the  Parnassian  Sheap  was  acomidated  with  a  Pen  to  it 
self  but  produst  nothin  worth  riting.  But  the  attemps  we  hav  maid 
this  here,  will  be  prosycutid  next  here  with  new  Vigors. 

Honnerd  Sur, — their  is  an  aggitating  Skeam  of  witch  I  humbly 
aprove  verry  hiley.  The  plan  is  owen  to  sum  of  the  Femail  Fellers,— 
and  that  is  to  make  the  Farm  a  Farm  Ornay.  For  instances  the 
Buffloo  and  Fallo  dears  and  cetra  to  have  their  horns  Gildid  and  the 
Mufflons  and  Sheaps  is  to  have  Pink  ribbings  round  there  nex.  The 
munkys  is  to  ware  fancy  dressis  and  the  Ostreaches  is  to  have  their 
plums  stuck  in  their  heds,  and  the  Pecox  tales  will  be  always  spred 
out  on  fraim  wurks  like  the  hispaliers.  All  the  Bares  is  to  be  tort  to 
Dance  to  Wippert's  Quadrils  and  the  Lions  mains  is  to  be  subjective 
to  pappers  and  the  curling-tongues-.  The  gould  and  silver  Fesants  is 
to  be  Pollisht  evry  day  with  Plait  Powder  and  the  Cammils  and 
Drumdearis  and  other  defourmd  anymiils  is  to  be  paddid  to  hide  their 
Crukidnes.  Mr  Howerd  is  to  file  down  the  tusks  of  the  wild  Bores 
and  Peckaris  and  the  Spoons  of  the  Spoonbills  is  to  be  maid  as  like 
the  Kings  Patten  as  posible.  The  elifunt  will  be  himbelisht  with  a 
Sugger  candid  Castle  maid  by  Gunter,  and  the  Flaminggoes  will  be 
toucht  up  with  Frentch  ruge  and  the  Damisels  will  hav  chaplits  of 
heartifitial  Flours.  The  Sloath  is  proposd  to  hav  an  ellegunt  Stait 
Bed — and  the  Bever  is  to  ware  one  of  Perren's  lite  Warter  Proof  Hats 


SHOOTING  PAINS. 


573 


—and  the  Balld  Vulters  baldnes  wil  be  hided  by  a  small  Whig  from 
Trewfits.  The  Grains  will  be  put  into  trousirs  and  the  Hippotomus 
tite  laced  for  a  waste.  Experience  will  dictait  menny  more  imbellish- 
ing  modes  with  witch  I  conclud  that  I  am  Your  Honners  Very  obleeged 
and  humbel  former  Servant,  Stephen  Humphreys. 


Shooting  with  Rover  and  Ranger. 


SHOOTING  PAINS* 

"The  charge  is  prepared." — Macheath. 

If  I  shoot  any  more  I'll  be  shot, 

For  ill-luck  seims  determmed  to  star  me, 

1  have  march'd  the  whole  day 

With  a  gun, — for  no  pay  — 
Zounds,  I'd  better  have  been  m  the  army !! 

What  matters  Sir  Christopher's  leave  ; 

To  his  manor  I'm  sorry  I  came  yet  ! 
With  confidence  fraught, 
My  two  pointers  I  brou'^'ht, 

But  we  are  not  a  point  towards  game  yet! 

•  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


574  SHOOTING  PAINS, 

And  that  gamekeeper  too,  with  advice  ! 
Of  my  course  he  has  been  a  nice  chalker. 

Not  far,  were  his  words, 

I  could  go  without  birds  : 
If  my  legs  could  cry  out,  they'd  cry  "  Walker  !* 

Not  Hnwker  could  find  out  a  flaw, — 

My  ap  ointments  are  modern  and  Mantony, 

And  I've  brought  my  own  man. 

To  mark  down  all  he  can, 
But  I  can't  find  a  mark  for  my  Antony  i 

The  partridges, — where  can  they  lie? 
I  have  promised  a  leash  to  Miss  Jervas, 

As  the  least  I  could  do  ; 

But  without  even  two 
To  brace  me, — I'm  getting  quite  nervous! 


Canvassing  a  Burrow — "  Come  to  the  Pole." 

To  the  pheasants — how  well  they're  preserved  ! 
My  sport's  not  a  jot  more  beholden, 

As  the  birds  are  so  shy. 

Fur  my  friends  I  must  buy, 
And  so  send  "  sdvcr  pheasants  and  golden." 


SHOOTING  PAINS. 

I  have  tried  every  form  for  a  hare, 

Every  patch,  every  furze  that  could  shroud  her. 

With  toil  unrelax'd, 

Till  my  patience  is  tax'd, 
But  I  cannot  be  tax'd  for  hare-powder. 

I've  been  roaming  for  hours  in  three  flats 
In  the  hope  of  a  snipe  for  a  snap  at ; 

But  still  vainly  I  court 

The  percussioning  sport, 
I  find  nothing  for  "  setting  my  cap  at !" 

A  woodcock, — this  month  is  the  time, — 
Right  and  left  I've  made  ready  my  lock  few. 

With  well-loaded  double, 

But  spile  of  my  trouble, 
Neither  barrel  can  I  find  a  cock  for  ! 

A  rabbit  I  should  not  despise, 

But  they  lurk  in  their  burrows  so  lowly; 

This  day's  the  eleventh, 

It  is  not  the  seventh, 
But  they  seem  to  be  keeping  it  hole-y. 


575 


A  Double  Barrel. 

For  a  mallard  I've  waded  the  marsh, 

And  haunted  each  pool,  and  each  lake— oh  ! 

Mine  is  not  the  luck. 

To  obtain  thee,  O  Duck, 
Or  to  doom  thee,  O  Drake,  like  a  Draco  I 

For  a  field-fare  I've  fared  far  a-field. 
Large  or  small  I  am  never  to  sack  bird, 

Not  a  thrush  is  so  kind 

As  to  fly,  and  I  find 
I  may  whistle  myself  for  a  black-bird ! 


jyg  SHOOTING  FAINS. 

I  am  angry,  I'm  hungry,  I'm  dry, 
Disappointed,  and  sullen,  and  goaded, 

And  so  weary  an  elf, 

I  am  sick  of  myself, 
And  with  Number  One  seem  o'erloaded. 

As  well  one  might  beat  round  St  Paul's, 
And  look  out  for  a  cock  or  a  hen  there  ; 

I  have  search'd  round  and  round 

All  the  Baronet's  ground, 
But  Sir  Christopher  hasn't  a  wren  there ! 

Joyce  may  talk  of  his  excellent  caps, 
But  for  nightcaps  they  set  me  desiring, 

And  it's  really  too  bad, 

Not  a  shot  I  have  had 
With  Hall's  Powder,  renown'd  for  "  quick  firing.* 

If  this  is  what  people  call  sport, 
Oh  !  of  sporting  I  can't  have  a  high  sense^ 
And  there  still  remains  one 
More  mischance  on  my  gun — 
**  Fined  for  shooting  without  any  licence* 


577 


The  Isle  of  Mao. 


THE  BOY  AT  THE  NORE,^ 

"Alone  I  did  it ! — Boy !  " — Coriolanus, 

I  SAY,  little  15oy  at  the  Nore, 

Do  you  come  from  the  small  Isle  of  Man? 
Why,  your  history  a  mystery  must  be, — 

Come  tell  us  as  much  as  you  can, 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore  I 

You  live,  it  seems,  wholly  on  water. 

Which  your  Gambier  calls  living  in  clever  ;— 

But  how  comes  it,  if  that  is  the  case. 
You're  eternally  half  seas  over, 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore  ? 

While  you  ride — while  you  dance — while  yea  float- 
Never  mind  your  imperfect  orthography  ; — 

But  give  us  as  well  as  you  can, 
Your  watery  auto-biography, 

Little  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 


Comic  Annual,  1833. 


20 


578 


THE  BOY  AT  THE  NORE. 


LITTLE  BOY  AT  THE  NORE  LOQUITUH, 

I'm  the  tight  little  Boy  at  the  Nore, 

In  a  sort  of  sea-ne<;us  I  dwells, 
Half  and  half  'twixt  salt  water  and  port ; 

I'm  reckon'd  the  first  of  the  swells — 

I'm  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  t 

I  lives  with  my  toes  to  the  flounders, 

And  watches  through  long  days  and  nights  ; 

Yet,  cruelly  eager,  men  look — 

To  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  my  lights — 

I'm  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  I 

I  never  gets  cold  in  the  head. 

So  my  life  on  salt  water  is  sweet ; 

I  think  I  owes  much  of  my  health 
To  being  well  used  to  wet  feet — 

As  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 


The  Buoy  at  the  Nore. 

There's  one  thing,  I'm  never  in  debt — 
Nay  !  I  liquidates  mure  than  I  oughter;^ 

So  the  man  to  beat  Cits  as  goes  by, 
In  keeping  the  head  above  water. 

Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

•  A  word  caught  from  some  American  trader  in  passing. 


THE  BOY  AT  THE  NORR. 

I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  distress, 

Lots  of  breakers  in  Ocean's  Gazette; 

They  should  do  as  I  do — rise  o'er  all, 
Ay,  a  good  floating  capital  get, 

Like  the  Boy  at  the  Nore ! 

I'm  a'ter  the  sailor's  own  heart, 

And  cheers  him,  in  deep  water  rolling  ; 

And  the  friend  of  all  friends  to  Jack  Junk, 

Ben  Backstay,  Tom  Pipes,  and  1  om  Bowling, 
Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 

Could  I  e'er  but  grow  up,  I'd  be  off 

For  a  week  to  make  love  with  my  wheedles  ; 

If  tlie  tight  little  Boy  at  the  Nore 
Could  but  catch  a  nice  girl  at  the  Needles, 

We'd  have  two  at  the  Nore  I 

They  thinks  little  of  sizes  on  water, 
On  big  waves  the  tiny  one  skulks — 

While  the  river  has  men-of-war  on  it — 

Yes — the  Thames  is  oppress'd  with  great  hulks, 
And  the  Boy's  at  the  Norel 

But  I've  done — for  the  water  is  heaving 

Round  my  body  as  though  it  would  sink  it ! 

And  I've  been  so  long  pitching  and  tossing, 
That  sea-sick — you'd  hardly  now  think  it- 
Is  the  Boy  at  the  Nore  ! 


57f 


At  Safe  as  the  Bank. 


5»o 


"Do  thy  Spiriting  gently." 


THE  GREAT  EARTHQUAKE  AT  MARY-LE-BONE* 

"Do  you  never  deviate?" — yohn  Brill. 

IT  was  on  the  evening  of  the  7th  of  November  18 — ,  that  I  went  by 
invitation  to  sup  with  my  friend  P.,  at  his  house  in  High  Street, 
Mary-le-bone.  The  only  other  person  present  was  a  Portuguese,  by 
name  Sefior  Mendez,  P.'s  mercantile  agent  at  Lisbon,  a  person  of  re- 
markably retentive  memory,  and  most  wonderful  power  of  description. 
The  conversation  somehow  turned  upon  the  memorable  great  earth- 
quake at  Lisbon,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord ,  and  Senor  Mendez, 

who  was  residing  at  that  time  in  the  Portuguese  capital,  gave  us  a 
very  hvely  picture — if  lively  it  may  be  called — of  the  horrors  of  that 
awful  convulsion  of  nature.  The  picture  was  dreadful  ;  the  Senor's 
own  house,  a  substantial  stone  mansion,  Was  rent  from  attic  to  cellar  ! 
pnd  the  steeple  of  his  parish  church  left  impending  over  it  at  an  angle 
surpassing  that  of  the  famous  Leaning  Tower  of  Bologna  ! 

The  Portuguese  had  a  wonderfully  expressive  countenance,  with  a 
style  of  narration  indescribably  vivid  ;  and  as  I  listened  with  the  most 
intense  interest,  every  dismal  circumstance  of  the  calamity  became 
awfully  distinct  to  my  apprehension.  I  could  hear  the  dreary  ringing 
of  the  bells,  self-tolled  from  the  rocking  of  the  churches;  the  swaying 

*  Comic  Annual,  1 831. 


THE  GREAT  EARTHQUAKE.  581 

to  nnd  fro  of  the  steeples  themselves,  and  the  unnatural  heavings  and 
swellings  of  the  Tagus,  were  vividly  before  me.  As  the  agitations 
increased,  the  voice  of  the  Senor  became  awfully  tremulous,  and  his 
seat  seemed  literally  lo  rock  under  him.  I  seemed  palsied,  and  could 
see  from  P.'s  looks  that  he  was  similarly  nftected.  To  conceal  his 
disorder,  he  kept  swallowing  large  gulps  from  his  rummer,  and  I 
followed  his  exam.ple. 

This  was  only  the  first  shock  ; — the  second  soon  followed,  and,  to 
use  a  popular  expression,  it  made  us  both  "shake  in  our  shoes.'* 
Terrific,  however,  as  it  was,  the  third  was  more  tremendous  ;  the  order 
of  nature  seemed  reversed  ;  the  ships  in  the  Tagus  sank  to  the  bottom, 
and  their  ponderous  anchors  rose  to  the  surface  ;  volcanic  fire  burst 
forth  from  the  water,  and  water  from  dry  ground  ;  the  air,  no  longer 
elastic,  seemed  to  become  a  stupendous  solid,  swaying  to  and  fro,  and 
irresistibly  battering  down  the  fabrics  of  ages  ;  hollow  rumblings  and 
meanings,  as  from  the  very  centre  of  the  world,  gave  warning  of  deafen- 
ing explosions,  which  soon  followed,  and  seemed  to  shake  the  very 
stars  out  of  the  sky.  All  this  time  the  powerful  features  of  the  Seiior 
kept  working,  in  frightful  imitation  of  the  convulsion  he  was  describ- 
ing, and  the  effect  was  horrible  !  I  saw  P.  quiver  like  an  aspen — there 
seemed  no  such  thing  as  terra  firma.  Our  chairs  rocked  under  us  ; 
the  floor  tossed  and  heaved  ;  the  candles  wavered,  the  windows  clat- 
tered, and  the  teaspoons  rang  again,  as  our  tumblers  vibrated  in  our 
hands. 

Seiior  Mendez  at  length  concluded  his  narrative,  and  shortly  took 
leave  ;  I  stayed  but  a  few  minutes  after  him,  just  to  make  a  remark  on 
the  appalling  character  of  the  story,  and  then  departed  myself, — little 
thinking  that  any  part  of  the  late  description  was  to  be  so  speedily 
realised  by  my  own  experience  ! 

The  hour  being  late,  and  the  servants  in  bed,  P.  himself  accom- 
panied me  to  the  door.  I  ought  to  remark  here  that  the  day  had  been 
uncommonly  serene, — not  a  breath  stirring,  as  was  noticed  on  the 
morning  of  the  great  catastrophe  at  Lisbon  ;  however,  P.  had  barely 
closed  the  door,  when  a  sudden  and  violent  motion  of  the  earth  threw 
me  from  the  step  on  which  I  was  standing  to  the  middle  of  the  pave- 
ment ;  I  had  got  partly  up  when  a  second  shock,  as  smart  as  the  first, 
threw  me  again  on  the  grouhd.  With  some  ditiiculty  I  recovered  my 
legs  a  second  time,  the  earth  in  the  meantime  heaving  about  under 
me  like  the  deck  of  a  ship  at  sea.  The  street-lamps,  too,  seemed 
violently  agitated,  and  the  houses  nodded  over  me  as  if  they  would 
fall  every  instant.  1  attempted  io  run,  but  it  was  impossible — I  could 
barely  keep  on  my  feet.  At  one  step  I  was  dashed  forcibly  against 
the  wall ;  at  the  next  I  was  thrown  into  the  road  ;  as  the  motion  be- 
came more  violent  I  clung  to  a  lamp-post,  but  it  swayed  with  me  like 
a  rush.  A  great  mist  came  suddenly  on,  but  I  could  perceive  people 
hurrying  about,  all  staggering  like  drunken  men  ;  some  of  them 
addressing  me,  but  so  confusedly  as  to  be  quite  unintelligible  ;  one— 
a  lady — passed  close  to  me  in  evident  alarm  :  seizing  her  hand,  I  be- 
sought her  to  fly  with  me  from  the  falling  houses  into  the  open  fields  ; 
what  answer  she  made  I  know  not,  for  at  that  instant  a  fresh  shock 
threw  me  on  my  face  with  such  violence  as  to  render  me  quite  insen- 


SKff  THE  GREAT  EARTHQUAKE. 

sible.  Providentially,  in  this  state  I  attracted  the  notice  of  some  o! 
the  night-police,  who  humanely  deposited  me,  for  safety,  in  St  Anne's 
watch-house  till  the  following  mornin^^^,  when,  being  sufficiently  reco- 
vered to  give  a  collected  account  of  that  eventful  evening,  the  ingenious 
Mr  W.,  of  the  Mornifig  Herald,  was  so  much  interested  by  my  narra- 
tive that  he  kindly  did  me  the  favour  of  drawing  it  up  for  publication 
in  the  following  form  : — 

Police  Intelligence. — Bow  Street. 

"  This  morning  a  stout  country  gentleman  in  a  new  suit  of  mud, 
evidently  town-made,  was  chargf-d  with  having  walked  IVaverly  over- 
night till  he  j,'Ot  his  Kennelworth  in  a  gutter  in  Mary-le-bone.  The 
Jack-o'-lanthorn  who  picked  him  up  could  make  nothing  out  of  him, 
but  that  he  was  some  sort  of  a  Quaker,  and  declared  that  the  whole 
country  was  in  a  shocking  state.  He  acknowledged  having  taken 
rather  too  much  Lisbon;  but  according  to  Mr  Daly,  he  sniffed  of 
whisky 'as  strong  as  natur.'  The  defendant  attempted  with  a  sotto 
voce  (anglice,  a  tipsy  voice),  to  make  some  excuse,  but  was  stopped  and 
fined  in  the  usual  sum  by  Sir  Richard.  He  found  his  way  out  of  the 
office,  muttering  that  he  thought  it  very  hard  to  have  to  ^a.yjive  hogs 
for  being  only  as  drunk  as  otte." 


^.Walli  I  never  could  keep  my  L«gtl' 


5^3 


Pride  and  Hirmility. 


ODE    TO   ST  S  WITHIN* 

"  The  rain  it  raineth  every  day." 

The  dawn  is  overcast,  the  morning  lowers, 
On  every  window-frame  hang  beaded  damps, 
Like  rows  of  small  illumination  lamps, 
To  celebrate  the  jubilee  of  showers  ! 
A  constant  sprinkle  patters  from  all  leaves, 
The  very  dryads  are  not  dry,  but  soppers. 

And  from  the  houses'  eaves 

Tumble  eaves-droppers. 

The  hundred  clerks  that  live  along  the  street, 
Bondsmen  to  mercantile  and  City  schemers, 
With  squashing,  sloshing,  and  galloshing  feet, 
Go  paddling,  paddling,  through  the  wet,  like  steamers, 
Each  hurrying  to  earn  the  d;iily  stipend — 
Umbrellas  pass  of  every  shade  of  green, 
And  now  and  then  a  crimson  one  is  seen, 
Like  an  umbrella  ripen  d. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


584  ODE  TO  ST  SWITHII7. 

Over  the  way  a  waggon 
Stands  with  six  smoking  horses,  shrinking,  blinking, 

While  in  the  George  and  Dragon 
The  man  is  keeping  himself  dry — and  drinking  ! 
The  butcher's  boy  skulks  underneath  his  tray, 

Hats  shine — shoes  don't — and  down  droop  collars^ 
And  one  blue  Parasol  cries  all  the  way 

To  school,  in  company  with  four  small  scholars  1 

Unhappy  is  the  man  to-day  who  rides, 
Making  his  journey  sloppier,  not  shorter ; 
Ay  !  there  they  go,  a  dozen  of  outsides, 
Performing  on  "a  stage  with  real  water  1* 
A  dripping  pauper  crawls  along  the  vvay, 

The  only  real  willing  out-of-doorer, 

And  says,  or  seems  to  say, 
•*  Well,  I  am  poor  enough — but  here's  2i poiirer I*    ' 

The  scene  in  water  colours  thus  I  paint, 
Is  your  own  festival,  you  sloppy  Saint  I 
Mother  of  all  the  family  of  rainers  1 

Saint  of  the  soakers  ! 

Making  all  people  croakers. 
Like  frogs  in  swampy  marshes,  and  complainers  t 
And  why  you  mizzle  forty  days  together, 
Giving  the  earth  your  water-soup  to  sup, 
I  marvel — Why  such  wet,  mysterious  weather? 

I  wish  you'd  clear  it  up  I 

Why  cast  such  cruel  dampers 
On  pretty  picnics,  and,  against  all  wishes, 
Set  the  cold  ducks  a-swimming  in  the  hampers, 
And  volunteer,  unask'd,  to  wash  the  dishes  ? 
Why  drive  the  nymphs  from  the  selected  spot, 

To  cling  like  ladybirds  around  a  tree? 

Why  spoil  a  gipsy  party  at  their  tea, 
By  throwing  your  cold  water  upon  hot  ? 

Cannot  a  rural  maiden,  or  a  man, 

Seek  Homsey  Wood  by  invitation,  sipping 

Their  green  with  Pan, 
But  souse  you  come,  and  show  their  Pan  all  dripping? 
Why  upon  snow-white  tablecloths  and  sheets, 
That  do  not  wait,  or  want  a  second  washing, 

Come  squashing  ? 
Why  task  yourself  to  lay  the  dust  in  streets, 
As  if  there  were  no  water-cart  contractors, 
No  potboys  spilling  beer,  no  shopboys  ruddy 

Spooning  out  puddles  muddy, 
Milkmaids,  and  other  shipping  benefactors  I 


ODE  TO  ST  SWITHIN. 

A  Queen  you  are,  raining  in  your  own  right, 
Yet  oh  !  how  little  flatter'd  by  report  ! 
Even  by  those  that  seek  the  Court, 
Pelted  with  every  term  of  spleen  and  spite. 
Folks  rail  and  swear  at  you  in  every  place  ; 
They  say  you  are  a  creature  of  no  bowel  ; 
They  say  you're  always  washing  Nature's  face, 
And  that  you  then  supply  her 
With  nothing  drier 
Than  some  old  wringing  cloud  by  way  of  towel ! 
The  whole  town  wants  you  duck'd,  just  as  you  duck  it, 
They  wish  you  on  your  own  mud  porridge  supper'd, 
They  hope  that  you  may  kick  your  own  big  bucket, 
Or  in  your  water-butt  go  souse  !  heels  up'ard  ! 
They  are,  in  short,  so  weary  of  your  drizzle, 
They'd  spill  the  water  in  your  veins  to  stop  it^ 
Be  warn'd  !  You  are  too  partial  to  a  mizzle — 
Pray  drop  it  I 


585 


"It  ncTor  rains  but  it  pows. 


586 


A  Figure  of  Speech  :— A  Broad  Scotchman. 


THE  APPARITION. 

A  TRUE  STORY.* 

**  'X'O  keep  without  a  reef  in  a  gale  of  wind  like  that,  Jock  was  the 
1       only  boatman  on  the  Firth  of  Tay  to  do  it ! " 
"  He  had  sail  enoui^h  to  blow  him  over  Dundee  Law." 
"  She's  emptied  her  ballast  and  come  up  again,  with  her  sails  all 
standing — every  sheet  was  belayed  wi-ih  a  double  turn." 

1  give  the  sense  rather  than  the  sound  of  the  foregoing  speeches,  for 
the  speakers  were  all  Dundee  ferry-boatmen,  and  broad  Scotchmen, 
using  the  extra-wide  dialect  of  Angusshire  and  Fife. 

Afthe  other  end  of  the  low-roufed  room,  under  a  coarse  white  sheet, 
sprinkled  with  sprigs  of  rue  and  rosemary,  dimly  lighted  by  a  small 
candle  at  the  head  and  another  at  the  feet,  lay  the  object  of  their  com- 
n,^.nls — a  corpse  of  starthng  magnitude.  In  life,  poor  Jock  was  of 
unusual  stature,  but  stretching  a  little,  perhaps,  as  is  usual  in  death, 
and  advantaged  by  the  narrow  limits  of  the  room,  the  dimensions 
seemed  aljsoTutely  su()ernatural.  During  the  warfare  of  the  Allies 
against  Napoleon,  Jock,  a  fellow  of  some  native  humour,  had  distin- 
guished himself  by  singing  about  the  streets  of  Dundee  ballads— I 
believe  his  own — against  old  Boney.  The  nickname  of  Ballad-Jock 
was  not  his  only  reward  ;  the  loyal  burgesses  subscribed  among  them- 

*  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


THE  APPARITION.  587 

selves,  and  made  him  that  fatal  gift,  a  ferry-boat,  the  management  of 
which  we  have  just  heard  so  seriously  reviewed.  The  cat.istrophe 
took  place  one  stormy  Sunday,  a  furious  gale  blowing  against  th« 
tide  down  the  river — and  the  Tay  is  anything  but  \\hat  the  Irish  call 
"  weak  tay,"  at  such  seasons.  In  fact,  the  devoted  Nelson, -ww^ix  all 
sails  set, — fair-weather  fashion, — caught  aback  in  a  sudden  gust,  after 
a  convulsive  whirl,  capsized,  and  went  down  in  forty  fathoms,  taking 
with  her  two-and-twenty  persons,  tlie  greater  part  of  whom  were  on 
their  way  to  hear  the  celebrated  Dr  Chahners,  even  at  that  time  highly 
popular,  though  preaching  in  a  small  church  at  some  obscure  village — • 
I  forget  the  name— m  Fife.  After  all  the  rest  had  sunk  in  the  waters, 
the  huge  figure  of  Jock  was  observed  clinging  to  an  oar,  barely  afloat, 
when  some  suffetx'r  probably  catching  hold  of  his  feet,  he  suddenly 
disappeared,  still  graspin:^  the  oar,  which  afterwards  springing  upright 
into  the  air.  as  it  rose  agam  to  the  surface,  shovved  the  feariul  depth 
to  which  it  had  been  carried.  The  body  of  Jock  was  the  last  found  : 
about  the  fifth  day,  it  was  strangely  enough  deposited  by  the  tide 
almost  at  the  threshold  of  his  own  dwelling  at  the  Craig,  a  small  pier  or 
jetty  frequented  by  the  ferry-boats.  It  had  been  hastily  caught  up, 
and,  in  its  clothes,  laid  out  in  the  manner  just  described,  lying  as  it 
were  in  state  ;  and  the  public,  myself  one,  being  freely  admitted,  as  far 
as  the  room  would  hold,  it  was  crowded  by  fishwives,  mariners,  and 
other  shore-haunters,  except  a  few  feet  next  the  corpse,  which  a  natural 
awe  towards  the  dead  kept  always  vacant.  The  narrow  death's  door 
was  crammed  with  eager  listening  and  looking  heads  ;  and  by  the 
buzzing  without,  there  was  a  large  surplus  crowd  in  waiting  before  the 
dwelling  for  their  turn  to  enter  it. 

On  a  sudden,  at  a  startling  exclamation  from  one  of  those  nearest 
the  bed,  all  eyes  were  directed  towards  that  quarter.  One  of  the 
candles  was  guttering  and  sputtering  near  the  socket, — the  other  just 
twinkling  out,  and  sending  up  a  stream  of  rank  smoke, — but  by  the 
light,  dim  as  it  was,  a  slight  motion  of  the  sheet  was  perceptible,  just 
at  that  part  where  the  hand  of  the  dead  mariner  mii^ht  be  supposed  to 
be  lying  at  his  side.  A  scream  and  shout  of  horror  burst  from  all 
within,  echoed,  though  ignorant  of  the  cause,  by  another  from  the 
crowd  without.  A  general  rush  was  made  towards  the  door, — but 
egress  was  impossible.  Nevertheless  horror  and  dread  squeezed  up 
the  company  in  the  room  to  half  their  former  compass,  and  left  a  far 
wider  blank  between  the  living  and  the  dead.  1  confess  at  first  I 
mistrusted  my  sight  ;  it  seemed  that  some  twitching  of  the  nerves  of 
the  eye,  or  the  flickering  of  the  shndov.s,  thrown  by  the  unsteady 
flame  of  the  candle,  might  have  caused  some  optic  il  delusion  ;  but 
after  seveial  minutes  of  sepulchral  silence  and  watching,  the  motion 
became  more  awfully  manifest,  now  proceeding  slowly  upwards,  as  if 
the  hand  of  the  deceased,  still  beneath  the  sheet,  was  struggling  up 
feebly  towards  his  head.  It  is  possible  to  conceive,  but  not  to  describe, 
the  popular  consternation, — the  shrieks  of  women, — the  shouts  of  men, 
— the  struggles  to  gain  the  only  outlet,  choked  up  and  rendered 
impassable  by  the  very  efforts  of  desperation  and  fe.ir  !  Clinging  to 
each  other,  and  with  ghastly  faces  that  dared  not  turn  from  the  object 
of  dread,  the  whole  assembly  backed  with  united  force  against  the 


^  THE  AFPARITIOS. 

opposite  wall,  with  a  convulsive  ener-y  that  threatened  (o  force  out 
the  very  side  of  the  dwelling — when,  startled  before  by  silent  motion, 
but  now  by  sound,  with  a  smart  rattle  something  fell  from  the  bed 
to  the  floor,  and  disentangling  itself  from  the  death  drapery,  displayed 
—  a  large  pound  crab  !     The  creature,  with  some  design,  perhaps  sini- 
ster, had  been  secreted  in  the  ample  clothes  of  the  drowned  seaman, 
but  even  the  comparative  insignificance  of  this  apparition  gave  but 
little  alleviation  to  the  superstitious  horrors  of  the  spectators,  who 
appeared  to   believe  firmly  that  it   was   only  the   Evil   One  himself 
transfigured.     Wherever  the  crab  straddled  sidelong,  infirm  beldame 
and  sturdy  boatman  equally  shrank  and  retreated  before  it, — ay,  even 
as  it  changed  place,  to  crowding  closely  round  the  corpse  itself,  rather 
than  endure  its  diabolical  contact.     The  crowd  outside,  warned  by 
cries  from  within  of  the  presence  of  Mahound,  had  by  this  time  retired 
to  a  respectful  distance,and  the  crab,  doing  what  herculean  sinews  had 
failed  to  effect,  cleared  itself  a  free  passage  through  the   door  in  a 
twinkling,  and,  with  natural  instinct,  began  crawling  as  fast  as  he  could 
clapperclaw  down  the  little  jetty  before  mentioned  that  led  into  his 
native  sea.      The   satanic   spirit,  however  disguised,  seemed   every- 
where distinctly  recognised.     Many   at  the   lower  end  of  the  Craig 
leapt  into  their  craft,  one  or  two  even  into  the  water,  whilst  others 
crept  as  close  to  the  verge  of  the  pier  as  they  could,  leaving  a  thorough- 
fare wide    as  "the  broad   path   of  honour"  to   the   infernal   Cancer. 
To  do  him  justice,  he  straddled  along  with  a  very  unaffected  uncon- 
sciousness of  his  own  evil  importance.     He  seemed  to  have  no  aim 
higher  than  salt  water  and  sand,  and  had  accomplished  half  the  dis- 
tance towards  them,  when  a  little  decrepit  poor  old  sea-roamer,  gene- 
rally known  as  "  Creel  Katie,"  made  a  dexterous    snatch    at  a  hind 
claw,  and,  before   tlie  crab-devil  was  aw,, re,  deposited    him   in    her 
patchwork  apron,  with  a   "  Hech,  sirs,  what  for  are  ye  gaun  to  let 
gang  siccan  a  braw  partane?"     In  vain  a  hundred  voices  shouted  out, 
"  Let  him  bide,  Katie, — he's  no  cannie  ;  "  fish  or  fiend,  the  resolute  old 
dame  kept  a  fast  clutch  of  her  prize,  promising  him,  moreover,  a  com- 
fortable simmer  in  the  muckle  pat,  for  the  benefit  of  herself  and  that 
"  puir  silly  body  the  gudeman  ;"  and  she   kept  her  word.      Before 
night  the  poor  devil  was  dressed  in  his  shell,  to  the  infinite  horror  of 
all  her  neighbours.     Some  even  said  that  a  black  figure,  with  horns, 
and  w'ings,  and  hoofs,  and  fi)rky  tail,  in  fact,  Old  Clooty  himself,  had 
been  seen  to  fly  out  of  the  chimney.     Others  said  that  unwholesome 
and  unearthly  smells,  as  of  pitch  and  brimstone,  had  reeked  forth  from 
the  abominable  thing  through  door  and  window.     Creel  Kate,  how- 
ever, persisted,  ay,  even  to  her  dying  day  and  on  her  deathbed,  that 
the  crab  was   as  sweet  a  crab  as  ever  was  supped   on,  and  that   it 
recovered  her  old  husband  out  of  a  very  poor  low  way, — adding,  "  And 
that  was  a  thing,  ye  ken,  the  deil  a  deil  in  the  Dub  o'   Darkness  wad 
hae  dune  for  siccan  a  gude  man,  and  kirk^juing  Christian  body,  as  my 
ain  douce  Davie." 


58q 


''Falmam  qui  meiuit  ferat." 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER* S  MOTTO.* 

««The  Admiral  compelled  them  all  to  stxWc."— Life  of  Nelson, 

Hush  !  silence  in  school— not  a  noise  ! 
You  shall  soon  see  there's  nothing  to  jeer  at ; 
Master  Marsh,  most  audacious  of  boys  1 
Come  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 

So  this  morn,  in  the  midst  of  the  Psalm, 
The  Miss  Siffkins's  school  you  must  leer  at ;' 
You're  complain'd  of,  sir  !  hold  out  your  palm,— 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  I " 

You  wilful  young  rebel  and  dunce ! 
This  offence  all  your  sins  shall  appear  at, 
You  shall  have  a  good  caning  at  once,— 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! " 

You  are  backward,  you  know,  in  each  verb, 
And  your  pronouns  you  are  not  more  clear  at, 

*  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


S90  THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  MOTTO. 

But  you're  forward  enough  to  disturb,— 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

You  said  Mnster  Twigg  stole  the  plums, 
When  the  orchard  he  never  was  near  at  ; 
I'll  not  punish  wrong  fingers  or  thumbs, — 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  ! " 

You  make  Master  Taylor  your  butt, 
And  this  morning  his  face  you  threw  beer  at. 
And  you  struck  him — do  you  like  a  cut? 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! " 

Little  Biddle  you  likewise  distress, 
You  are  always  his  hair  or  his  ear  at  ; 
He's  my  Opt,  sir,  and  you  are  my  Fess,— 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

Then  you  had  a  pitch'd  fight  with  young  Rou% 
An  offence  I  am  always  severe  at, 
You  discredit  to  Cicero- House  ! 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  ! " 

You  have  made,  too,  a  plot  in  the  night. 
To  run  off  from  the  school  that  you  rear  at ! 
Come,  your  other  hand,  now,  sir, — the  right, 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  ! " 

I'll  teach  you  to  draw,  you  young  dog  I 
Such  pictures  as  I'm  looking  here  at ! 
*  Old  Mounseer  making  soup  of  a  frog,"— 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  1" 

You  have  run  up  a  bill  at  a  shop, 
That  in  paying  you'll  be  a  whole  year  at ; 
You've  but  twopence  a  week,  sir,  to  stop  I 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !  " 

Then  at  dinner  you're  quite  cock-a-hoop. 
And  the  soup  you  are  certain  to  sneer  at  ; 
I  have  sipp'd  it — it's  very  good  soup,— 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat !" 

T'other  day,  when  I  fell  o'er  the  form, 
Was  my  tumble  a  thing,  sir,  to  cheer  at? 
Well  for  you  that  my  temper's  not  warm,— 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat ! " 

Why,  you  rascal !  you  insolent  brat ! 
All  my  talking  you  don't  shed  a  tear  at ; 
There— take  that,  sir  !  and  that  !  that !  and  thatf 
There  ! — "  Palmam  qui  meruit  ferat  ! " 


591 


A  Misguided  Man. 


A    BLIND   MAN* 

IS  a  blackamoor  turned  outside  in.  His  skin  is  fair,  but  bis  lining 
is  utter  dark  ;  his  eyes  are  like  shotten  stars, — mere  jellies  ;  of 
like  mock-painted  windows  since  the  tax  upon  daylight :  what  his 
mind's  eye  can  be  is  yet  a  mystery  with  the  learned,  or  if  he  hath  a 
mental  capacity  at  all — for,  '*  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind." 

Wherever  he  stands  he  is  antipodean,  with  his  midnight  to  your 
noon.  The  brightest  sunshine  serves  only  to  make  him  the  gloomier 
object,  like  a  dark  house  at  a  general  illumination.  When  he  stirs,  it 
is  like  a  Venetian  blind,  being  pulled  up  and  down  by  a  string  ;  he  is 
a  human  kettle  tied  to  a  dog's  tail,  and  with  much  of  the  same  tin 
twang  in  his  tone.  With  botanists  he  is  a  species  of  solanum,  or  night- 
shade, whereof  the  berries  are  in  his  eyes  ; — amongst  painters  he  is 
only  contemned  for  his  ignorance  of  clare-obscure  ;  but  by  musicians 
marvelled  at  for  playing,  ante-sight,  on  an  invisible  fiddle.  He  stands 
against  a  wall  with  his  two  blank  orbs  like  a  figure  in  high  relief,  how- 
beit  but  seldom  relieved  ;  and  though  he  is  fond  of  getting  pence,  yet 
he  is  confessedly  blind  to  his  own  interest. 

In  his  religion  he  is  a  materialist,  putting  no  faith  but  in  things 
palpable;  in  politics,  no  visionary;  in  his  learning  a  smatterer,  bis 

*  Comic  Annual,  183 1. 


593 


THE  SUFFER  SUFERSTITIOtr. 


knowledge  of  all  being  superficial  ;  in  his  age  a  child,  being  yet  in 
.leading-strings  ;  in  his  life  immortal,  for  death  may  lengthen  his  night, 
but  can  put  no  end  to  his  days  ;  in  his  courage  heroic,  for  he  winks  at 
no  danger  ;  in  his  pretensions  humble,  confessing  that  he  is  nothing, 
even  in  his  own  eyes  ;  in  his  malady  hopeless,  for  eyes  of  looking- 
glnss  would  not  help  him  to  see.  To  conclude,  he  is  pitied  by  the 
rich,  relieved  by  the  poor,  oppressed  by  the  beadle,  and  horsewhipped 
by  the  fox-hunter  for  not  giving  the  view  holla  1 


*'  Be  to  their  faults  a  little  blind' 


TEE  SUPPER  superstition: 

A  PATHETIC  BALLAD.* 
••O  flesh,  flesh  I  how  art  thou  fishified  I "— MKRCOna 


I. 

o'clock 


by    Chelsea 


TwAS   twelve 

chimes, 
When,  all  in  hungry  trim. 
Good  Mister  Jupp  sat  down  to  sup, 
With  wife,  and  Kate,  and  Jim. 

n. 

Said  he,  "  Upon  this  dainty  cod 
How  bravely  I  shall  sup," — 

When,  whiter  than  the  tablecloth, 
A  GHOST  came  rising  up  1 

IIL 

«•  O  father  dear !  O  mother  dear ! 

Dear  Kate,  and  brother  Jim  I 
You  know  when  some  one  went  to 


Don't  cry — but  I  am  him  1 


IV. 

**  You  hope  some  day  with  fond  ea^ 

brace 
To  greet  your  absent  Jack, 
But  oh,  I  am  come  here  to  say 
I'm  never  coming  back  I 

V. 

*•  From  Alexandria  we  set  sail. 
With  com,  and  oil,  and  figs. 

But  steering  'too    much    Sow,'  wt 
struck 
Upon  the  Sow  and  Pigs  I 

VI. 

*'The  ship  we  pump'd  till  we  could  see 
Old  England  from  the  tops, 

When  down  she  went  with  all  out 
hands, 
Right  in  the  Channel's  Chops. 


•  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


THE  SUFFER  SUFERSTITION. 


59S 


VII. 


*'  Just  give  a  look  in  Norey's  chart, 

The  very  place  it  tells  ; 
I  think  it  says  twelve  fathom  deep^ 

Clay  bottom,  mix'd  with  shells. 


•'  Well,  there  we  are  till '  hands  aloft. 

We  have  at  last  a  call ; 
The  pug  I  had  for  brother  Jim, 

Kate's  parrot  too,  and  aU. 

IX. 

"  But  oh,  my  spirit  cannot  rest 

In  Davy  Jones's  sod. 
Till  I've  appear'd  to  you  and  said,— 

Don't  sup  on  that  'ere  cod  I 


••  You  live  on  land,  and  little  think 

What  passes  in  the  sea ; 
Last  Sunday  week,  at  two  P.M., 

That  cod  was  picking  me  1 

XI. 

**  Those   oysters  too,  that   look  m 
plump. 

And  seem  so  nicely  done, 
They  put  my  corpse  in  many  shells^ 

Instead  of  only  one. 

XIL 

•*  Oh,  do  not  eat  those  oysters  then, 
And  do  not  touch  the  shrimps ; 


When  I  was  in  my  briny  grare, 
They  suck'd  my  blood  like  imps  t 


*'  Don't  eat  what  brutes  would  nevef 
eat — 
The  brutes  I  used  to  pat. 
They'll  know  the  smell  they  used  to 
smell. 
Just  try  the  dog  and  cat  1  *• 


The  spirit  fled — they  wept  his  fatc^ 
And  cried,  "  Alack,  alack  ! " 

At  last  up  started  brother  Jim,— 
"  Let's  try  if  Jack  was  Jack  I " 


They  call'd  the  dog,  they  call'd  tb« 
cat, 
And  little  kitten  too. 
And  down    they  put    the  cod  kbA 
sauce, 
I'o  see  what  brutes  would  dOb 

XVL 

Old  Tray  lick'd  all  the  oysters  up^ 
Puss  never  stood  at  crimps, 

But  munch'd  the  cod, — and  little  Kit 
Quite  feasted  on  the  shrimps  I 

XVII. 
The  thing  was  odd,  and  minus  cod 

And  sauce,  they  stood  like  posts  ; 
Oh,  prudent  folks,  for  fear  of  hoaJ^ 

Put  no  belief  in  ghosts  1 


Vkitnds  awaiting  a  Sailor's  retura. 


%  f 


594 


The  Boa  after  a  MeaL 


A   SNAKE-SNACK* 

"Twist  ye,  twine  ye." — Sir  W.  Scott. 

IT  was  my  good  fortune  once,  at  Charing  Cross,  to  witness  the  feed- 
ing of  the  boa  constrictor — rather  a  rare  occurrence,  and  difficult  of 
observation,  the  reptile  not  being  remarkable  for  the  regularity  of  its 
dinner-hour  ;  and  a  very  considerable  interval  intervenes,  as  the  world 
knows,  between  Gorge  the  First  and  Gorge  the  Second,  Gor^e  the 
Third  and  Gorge  the  Fourth.  I  was  not  in  time  to  see  the  serpent's 
first  dart  at  the  prey  ;  she  had  already  twisted  herself  round  her 
victim, — a  living  white  rabbit, —  who  with  a  large  dark  eye  gazed 
piteously  through  one  of  the  folds,  and  looked  most  eloquently  that 
line  in  Hamlet — 

"  Oh,  could  I  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coill^* 

The  snake  evidently  only  embraced  him  in  a  kill-him-when-I-want-him 
manner,  just  firmly  enough  to  prevent  an  escape, — but  her  lips  were 
glued  on  his  in  a  close  "  Judas'  kiss."  So  long  a  time  elapsed  in  this 
position,  both  as  marble-still  as  poor  old  Laocoon  with  his  leeches  on, 
that  I  really  began  to  doubt  the  tale  of  the  boa's  ability  in  swallowing, 
and  to  associate  the  hoax  before  me  with  that  of  the  bottle-conjuror. 
The  head  of  the  snake,  in  fact,  might  have  gone  without  difficulty  into 
a  wine-gLiss,  and  the  throat,  down  which  the  rabbit  was  to  proceed 
whole,  seemed  not  at  all  thicker  than  my  thumb.  In  short,  I  thought 
the  reported  cram  was  nothing  but  stuff,  and  the  only  other  visitor 
declared  himself  of  my  opinion  :  "  If  that  'ere  little  wiper  swallows 
up  the  rabbit,  I'll  bolt  um  both  ! "  and  he  seemed  capable  of  the  feat. 
•  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


A  SNAKE-SNACrr, 


595 


He  looked  like  a  personificntion  of  what  political  economists  tall  the 
Public  Consumer,  or  Geoffrey  Crayon's  Stout  Gentleman,  seen  throu'^h 
Carpenter's  solar  microscope — a  genuine  Edax  Rerum  ;  one  of  your 
devourers  of  legs  of  mutton  and  trimmings  for  wagers,  the  delight  of 
eating-houses,  and  the  dread  of  ordinaries.  The  contrast  was  whimsical 
between  his  mountain  of  mummy  and  the  slim  Maccarotii  figure  of  the 
snake,  the  reputed  glutton.  However,  the  boa  began  at  last  to  prepare 
for  the  meal  by  lubricating  the  muzzle  of  the  rabbit  with  her  slimy 
tongue,  and  then  commenced  in  earnest — 

"  As  far  as  in  her  lay  to  take  him  in, 
A  stranger  dying  with  so  fair  a  skin." 

The  process  was  tedious — "one  swallow  makes  a  summer,"  but  it 
gradually  became  apparent,  from  the  fate  of  the  head,  that  the  whole 
body  might  eventually  "  be  lost  in  the  Serpentine."  The  reptile,  indeed, 
made  ready  for  the  rest  of  the  interment  by  an  operation  rather 
horrible.  On  a  sudden,  the  living  cable  was  observed,  as  a  sailor 
would  say,  to  haul  in  her  slack,  and  with  a  squeeze  evincing  tremendous 
muscular  power,  she  reduced  the  whole  body  into  a  compass  that 
would  follow  the  head  with  perfect  ease.  It  was  like  a  regular  smash 
in  business  ; — the  poor  rabbit  was  completely  broken — and  the  wily 
winder-up  of  his  affairs  recommenced  paying  herself  in  full.  It  was  a 
sorry  sight  and  sickening.  As  for  the  stout  gentleman,  he  could  not 
control  his  agitation.  His  eyes  rolled  and  watered,  his  jaws  constantly 
yawned  like  a  panther's,  and  his  hands  with  a  convulsive  movement 
were  clasped  every  now  and  then  on  his  stomach  ; — but  when  the 
whole  rabbit  was  smothered  in  snake,  he  could  restrain  himself  no 
longer,  and  rushed  out  of  the  menagerie  as  if  he  really  expected  to  be 
called  upon  to  fulfil  his  rash  engagement.  Anxious  to  ascertain  the 
true  nature  of  the  impulse,  I  hurried  in  pursuit  of  him,  and  after  a 
short  but  sharp  chase,  I  saw  him  dash  into  the  British  Hotel,  and 
overheard  his  familiar  voice — the  same  that  had  promised  to  swallow 
both  snake  and  snack— bellowing  out,  guttural  with  hunger — "  Here  ! 
waiter  1  quick  !  Rabbits  in  onions  for  two  ! " 


Tht  Gidt  .■>eu-c>crpeni  dis..ovcred  from  the  Mast-HeadL 


An  Abridgement  of  all  that  is  Pleasant  in  Mift 

A   STORM  AT  HASTINGS, 

AND  THE  LITTLE  UNKNOWN.* 

^WAS  August  ! — Hastings  every  day  was  filling- 
Hastings,  that  "greenest  spot  on  memory's  waste  I** 
With  crowds  of  idlers,  willing  or  unwilling 
To  be  bedipp'd — be  noticed — or  be  braced, 
And  all  things  rose  a  penny  in  a  shilling. 
Meanwhile,  from  window,  and  from  door,  in  hasttt 
**  Accommodation  bills"  kept  coming  down, 
Gladding  "  the  world  of  letters  "  in  that  town. 

Each  day  pour'd  in  new  coachfuls  of  new  cits, 

Flying  from  London  smoke  and  dust  annoying,— 

Unmarried  misses  hoping  to  make  hits, 

And  new-wed  couples  fresh  from  Tunbridge  toying^-* 

Lacemen  and  placemen,  ministers  and  wits. 

And  Quakers  of  both  sexes,  much  enjoying 

A  morning's  reading  by  the  ocean's  rim. 

That  sect  delighting  in  the  sea's  broad  brim. 

And  lo  !  amongst  all  these  appear'd  a  creature, 
So  small,  he  almost  might  a  twin  have  been 
With  Miss  Crachami — dwarfish  quite  in  statur^ 
Yet  well  proportion'd — neither  fat  nor  lean. 
His  face  of  marvellously  pleasant  feature, — 
So  short  and  sweet  a  man  was  never  seen  :— 
*  Comic  Annual,  183a 


A  STORM  A  T  HASTINGS. 

All  thought  him  charming  at  the  first  beginning- 
Alas  !  ere  long  they  found  him  far  too  winning  1 

He  seem'd  in  love  with  Chance— and  Chance  repaid 

His  ardent  passion  with  her  fondest  smile, 

The  sunshine  of  good  luck  :  without  a  shade 

He  staked  and  won,  and  won  and  staked  ; — the  bile 

It  stirr'd  of  many  a  man  and  many  a  maid 

To  see  at  every  venture  how  that  vile 

Small  gambler  snatch'd — and  how  he  won  them  tOO— 

A  living  Pam,  omnipotent  at  loo  1 


S99 


A  Tide- Waiter. 


Miss  Wiggins  set  her  heart  upon  a  box, 

Twas  handsome,  rosewood,  and  inlaid  with  brass, 

And  dreamt  three  times  she  garnish'd  it  with  stocks 

Of  needles,  silks,  and  cottons — but  alas  ! 

She  lost  it  wide  awake. — We  thought  Miss  Cox 

Was  lucky— but  she  saw  three  caddies  pass 

To  that  small  imp  ; — no  living  luck  could  loo  him  I 

Sir  Stamford  would  have  lost  his  Raffles  to  him  I 

And  so  he  climb'd,  and  rode,  and  won,  and  walk'd, 

The  wondrous  topic  of  the  curious  swarm 

That  haunted  the  Parade.     Many  were  balk'd 

Of  notoriety  by  that  small  form 

Pacing  it  up  and  down  ; — some  even  talk'd 

Of  ducking  him — when  lo !  a  dismal  storm 


Sgl  A  STORM  A  T  HASTINGS. 

Stepp'd  in — one  Friday,  at  the  close  of  day— 
And  every  head  was  turn'd  another  way — 

Watching  the  grander  guest.     It  seem'd  to  rise 

Bulky  and  slow  upon  the  southern  brink 

Of  the  horizon — fann'd  by  sultry  sighs — 

So  black  and  threatening,  I  cannot  think 

Of  any  simile,  except  the  skies 

Miss  Wiggins  sometime  shades  in  Indian-ink;— 

il/zj-j-shnpen  blotches  of  such  heavy  vapour, 

They  seem  a  deal  more  solid  than  her  paper, 

''         As  for  the  sea,  it  did  not  fret,  and  rave, 

And  tear  its  waves  to  tatters,  and  so  dash  on 
The  stony-hearted  beach  ; — some  bards  would  have 
It  always  rampant  in  that  idle  fashion, — 
Whereas  the  waves  roU'd  in,  subdued  and  grave. 
Like  schoolboys,  when  the  master's  in  a  passion. 
Who  meekly  settle  in  and  take  their  places, 
With  a  very  quiet  awe  on  all  their  faces. 

Some  love  to  draw  the  ocean  with  a  head, 
Like  troubled  table-beer, — and  make  it  bounce, 
And  froth,  and  roar,  and  fling, — but  this,  I've  said. 
Surged  in  scarce  rougher  than  a  lady's  flounce;— 
But  then,  a  grander  contrast  thus  it  bred 
With  the  wild  welkin,  seeming  to  pronounce 
Something  more  awful  in  the  serious  ear, 
As  one  would  whisper  that  a  lion's  near — 

Who  just  begins  to  roar :  so  the  hoarse  thunder 
Growl'd  long,  but  low — a  prelude  note  of  death, 
As  if  the  stifling  clouds  yet  kept  it  under, 
But  still  it  mutter'd  to  the  sea  beneath 
Such  a  continued  peal,  as  made  us  wonder 
It  did  not  pause  more  oft  to  take  its  breath, 
Whilst  we  were  panting  with  the  sultry  weather, 
^nd  hardly  cared  to  wed  two  words  together. 

But  watch'd  the  surly  advent  of  the  storm. 
Much  as  the  brown-cheek'd  planters  of  Barbadoei 
Must  watch  a  rising  of  the  Negro  swarm. 
Meantime  it  steer'd,  like  Odin's  old  armadas, 
Right  on  our  coast ; — a  dismal,  coal-black  form  ;— 
Many  proud  gaits  were  quell'd — and  all  bravadoef 
Of  folly  ceased — and  sundry  idle  jokers 
Went  home  to  cover  up  their  tongs  and  pokers. 

So  fierce  the  lightning  flash'd, — in  all  their  days 
The  oldest  smugglers  had  not  seen  such  flashing. 
And  they  are  used  to  many  a  prettv  blaze, 
To  keep  their  Hollands  from  an  awkward  clashing 


A  STORM  A  T  HASTINGS.  -59J 

With  hostile  cutters  in  our  creeks  and  bays  ;— 
And  truly  one  could  think,  without  much  lashing 
The  fancy,  that  those  coasting  clouds,  so  awful 
And  black,  were  fraught  with  spirits  as  unlawful 

The  gny  Parade  grew  thin — all  the  fair  crowd 
Vanish'd — as  if  they  knew  their  own  atti  actions,— 
For  now  the  lightning  through  a  near-hand  cloud 
Began  to  make  some  very  crooked  fractions  ;  — 
Only  some  few  remain'd  that  were  not  cow'd, 
A  few  rough  sailors,  who  had  been  in  actions, 
And  sundry,  boatmen,  that  with  quick  yeo's. 
Lest  it  should  blow,—wQve.  pulling  up  the  '■^ Rose"^- 

(No  flower,  but  a  boat);— some  more  were  hauling 
The  "■Regent"  by  the  head  ; — another  crew, 
With  that  same  cry  peculiar  to  their  calling. 
Were  heaving  up  the  "  Hope;" — and  as  they  knew 
The  very  gods  themselves  oft  get  a  mauling 
In  their  own  realms,  the  seamen  wisely  drew 
The  "  Neptune  "  rather  higher  on  the  beach. 
That  he  might  lie  beyond  his  billows'  reach. 

And  now  the  storm  with  its  despotic  power 
Had  all  usurp'd  the  azure  of  the  skies, 
Making  our  daylight  darker  by  an  hour. 
And  some  few  drops— of  an  unusual  size — 
Few  and  distinct — scarce  twenty  to  the  shower, 
Fell  like  huge  teardrops  from  a  giant's  eyes  ;^ 
But  then  this  sprinkle  thicken'd  in  a  trice 
And  rain'd  much  harder — in  good  solid  ice. 

Oh,  for  a  very  storm  of  words  to  show 
How  this  fierce  crash  of  hail  came  rushing  o'er  usi 
Handel  would  make  the  gusty  organs  blow 
Grandly,  and  a  rich  storm  ia  music  score  us  ;— 
But  even  his  music  seem'd  composed  and  low, 
When  we  were  handled  by  this  hailstone  chorus  ; 
Whilst  thunder  rumbled,  with  its  awful  sound, 
And  frozen  comfits  roild  along  the  ground — 

As  big  as  bullets  : — Lord  !  how  they  did  batter 
Our  crazy  tiles.     And  now  the  lightning  flash'd 
Alternate  with  the  dark,  until  the  latter 
Was  rarest  of  the  two  ; — the  gust,  too,  dash'd 
So  terribly,  I  thou!j;ht  the  hail  must  shatter 
Some  panes, — and  so  it  did — and  first  it  smash'd 
The  very  square  where  I  had  chose  my  station 
To  watch  the  general  illumination. 

Another,  and  another,  still  came  in, 
And  fell  in  jingling  ruin  at  my  feet, 


6ao  A  STORM  A  T  HASTINGS. 

Making  transparent  holes  that  let  me  win 

Some  samples  of  the  storm.     Oh,  it  was  sweet 

To  think  I  had  a  shelter  for  my  skin, 

Culling  them  through  these  "loopholes  of  retreat,* 

Which  in  a  little  we  began  to  glaze — 

Chiefly  with  a  jack-towel  and  some  baize  I 

By  which  the  cloud  had  pass'd  o'erhead,  but  play'd 

Its  crooked  fires  in  constant  flashes  still, 

Just  in  our  rear,  as  though  it  had  array'd 

Its  heavy  batteries  at  Fairlight  Mill, 

So  that  it  lit  the  town,  and  grandly  made 

The  rugged  features  of  the  Castle  Hill 

Leap,  like  a  birth,  from  chaos  into  light, 

And  then  relapse  into  the  gloomy  night— 

As  parcel  of  the  cloud  ; — the  clouds  themselves, 
Like  monstrous  crags  and  summits  everlasting, 
Piled  each  on  each  in  most  gigantic  shelves. 
That  Milton's  devils  were  engaged  in  blasting;— 
We  could  e'en  fancy  Satan  and  his  elves 
Busy  upon  those  crags,  and  ever  casting 
Huge  fragments  loose,  and  that  -wo.  felt  the  sound 
They  made  in  falling  to  the  startled  ground. 

And  so  the  tempest  scowl'd  away, — and  soon. 
Timidly  shining  through  its  skirts  of  jet, 
We  saw  the  rim  of  the  pacific  moon. 
Like  a  bright  fish  entangled  in  a  net. 
Flashing  its  silver  side, — how  sweet  a  boon 
Seem'd  her  sweet  light,  as  though  it  would  beget^ 
With  that  fair  smile,  a  calm  upon  the  seas — 
Peace  in  the  sky — and  coolness  in  the  breeze  ! 

Meantime  the  hail  had  ceased, — and  all  the  brood 
Of  glaziers  stole  abroad  to  count  their  gains  ;— 
At  every  window  there  were  maids  who  stood 
Lamenting  o'er  the  glass's  small  remains. 
Or  with  coarse  linens  made  the  fractions  good. 
Stanching  the  wind  in  all  the  wounded  panes,— 
Or  holding  candles  to  the  panes  in  doubt : 
The  wind,  resolved — blowing  the  candles  out. 

No  house  was  whole  that  had  a  southern  front,— 
No  greenhouse  but  the  same  mishap  befell  ; — 
^tfw-windows  and  ^^//-glasses  bore  the  brunt, — 

No  sex  in  glass  was  spared  ! For  those  who  dwell 

On  each  hillside,  you  might  have  swamp'd  a  punt 
In  any  of  their  parlours  ; — Mrs  Snell 
Was  slopp'd  out  of  her  seat,— and  Mr  Hitchin 
Had  a^(?a/^r-garden  wash'd  into  a  kitchen. 


A  STORM  A  T  HASTIN'GS.  8m 

But  still  the  sea  was  wild,  and  quite  disclaim'd 
The  recent  violence.     Each  after  each 
The  gentle  waves  a  gentle  murmur  framed, 
Tapping,  like  woodpeckers,  the  hollow  beach. 
Howbeit  his  weather-eye  the  seaman  aim'd 
Across  the  calm,  and  hinted  by  his  speech 
A  gale  next  morning — and  when  morning  broken 
There  was  a  gale — "  quite  equal  to  bespoke." 

Before  high  water — (it  were  better  far 
To  christen  it  not  water  then,  but  waiter^ 
For  then  the  tide  is  serving  at  the  bar) — 
Rose  such  a  swell — I  never  saw  one  greater  t 
Black,  jaj,rged  billows  rearing  up  in  war 
Like  ra:4ged  roaring  bears  against  the  baiter,   • 
With  lots  of  froth  upon  the  shingle  shed, 
Like  stout  pour'd  out  with  a  fine  beachy  head. 

No  open  boat  was  open  to  a  fare, 
Or  launch'd  that  morn  on  seven-shilling  trips  J 
No  bathing  woman  waded — none  would  dare 
A  dipping  in  the  wave — but  waived  their  dips ; 
No  seagull  ventured  on  the  stormy  air, 
And  all  the  dreary  coast  was  clear  of  ships  ; 
For  two  lea  shores  upon  the  river  Lea 
Are  not  so  perilous  as  one  at  sea. 

Awestruck  we  sat,  and  gazed  upon  the  scene 

Before  us  in  such  horrid  hurlyburly, — 

A  boiling  ocean  of  mix'd  black  and  green, 

A  sky  of  copper  colour,  grim  and  surly, —  , 

When  lo  !  in  that  vast  hollow  scoop'd  between 

Two  rolling  alps  of  water,  white  and  curly, 

We  saw  a  pair  of  little  arms  a-skimming, 

Much  like  a  first  or  last  attempt  at  swimming  I 

Sometimes  a  hand — sometimes  a  little  shoe- 
Sometimes  a  skirt — sometimes  a  hank  of  hair, 
Just  like  a  dabbled  seaweed,  rose  to  view, — 
Sometimes  a  knee,  sometimes  a  back  was  bare-« 
At  last  a  frightful  summerset  he  threw 
Right  on  the  shingles.     Any  one  could  swear 
The  lad  was  dead,  without  a  chance  of  perjury. 
And  batter'd  by  the  surge  beyond  all  surgery  ! 

However,  we  snatch'd  up  the  corse  thus  thrown, 
Intending,  Christian-like,  to  sod  and  turf  it, 
And  after  venting  Pity's  sigh  and  groan, 
Then  Curiosity  began  with  her  fit ; 


Sob  a  storm  a  t  ha  stings. 

And  lo  f  the  features  of  the  Small  Unkno\Tn  f 
'Twas  he  that  of  the  surf  had  had  this  surfeit ! 
And  in  his  fob,  the  cause  of  late  monopolies, 
We  found  a  contract  signed  "  Mephistopheles  1* 

A  bond  of  blood,  whereby  the  sinner  gave 

His  forfeit  soul  to  Satan  in  reversion, 

Providing  in  this  world  he  was  to  have 

A  lordship  over  luck,  by  whose  exertion 

He  might  control  the  course  of  cards,  and  brave 

All  throws  of  dice,— but  on  a  sea-excursion 

The  juggling  demon,  in  his  usual  vein. 

Seized  the  last  cast — and  Nick'd  him  in  the  main  t 


,  irou  Ocean  nai^gt 


fe? 


Kctching  its  Prey. 


LINES 

lO  A  LADY  ON  HER  DEPARTURE  FOR  INDIA.* 

Go  where  the  waves  run  rather  Holbom-hilly, 
And  tempests  make  a  soda-water  sea, 
Almost  as  rough  as  our  rough  Piccadilly, 

And  think  of  me ! 

Go  where  the  mild  Madeira  ripens  j^i?r  juice,— 
A  wine  more  praised  than  it  deserves  to  be  1 
Go  pass  the  Cape,  just  capable  of  ver-juice, 
And  think  of  me  I 

Go  where  the  tiger  in  the  darkness  prowleth, 
Making  a  midnight  meal  of  he  and  she  ; 
Go  where  the  lion  in  his  hunger  howleth, 

And  think  of  me  I 

Go  where  the  serpent  dangerously  coileth, 
Or  lies  along  at  full  length  like  a  tree  ; 
Go  where  the  Suitee  in  her  own  soot  broileth, 
And  think  of  me  i 

•  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


604  LINES. 

Go  where  with  human  notes  the  parrot  dealeth 
In  mono-/>£>//y-logue  with  tongue  as  free, 
And,  hke  a  woman,  all  she  can  revealeth, 

And  thinlc  of  me  1 

Go  to  the  land  of  muslin  and  nankeening, 
And  parasols  of  straw  where  hats  should  be ; 
Go  to  the  land  of  slaves  and  palankeening, 
And  think  of  me  1 

Go  to  the  land  of  jungles  and  of  vast  hills 
And  tall  bamboos — may  none  bamboozle  thee  I 
Go  gaze  upon  their  elephants  and  castles, 

And  think  of  me  I 

Go  where  a  cook  must  always  be  a  currier, 
And  parch  the  pepper'd  palate  like  a  pea ; 
Go  where  the  fierce  musquito  is  a  worrier, 

And  think  of  me  t 

Go  where  the  maiden  on  a  marriage  plan  goes, 
Consign'd  for  wedlock  to  Calcutta's  quay. 
Where  woman  goes  for  mart,  the  same  as  mangoe% 
And  think  of  me  1 

Go  where  the  sun  is  very  hot  and  fervent, 
Go  to  the  land  of  pagod  and  rupee, 
Where  every  black  will  be  your  slave  and  servsinty 
And  think  of  me  1 


A  Sowwester  off  the  Cape  : — Pigs  in  the  Trough  of  the  Sl& 


«o$ 


The  Stamp-duty  on  Scotch  Linen. 


SONNET 

to  A  SCOTCH  GIRL,  WASHING  LINEN  AFTER  HER  COUNTRY  FASHIOM." 

Well  done  and  wetly,  thou  Fair  Maid  of  Perth  1 
Thou  makest  a  washing  picture  well  deserving 
The  pen  and  penciUing  of  Washington  Irving: 

Like  dripping  Naiad,  pearly  from  her  birth, 

Dashing  about  the  water  of  the  Firth, 
To  cleanse  the  calico  of  Mrs  Skirving, 
And  never  from  thy  dance  of  duty  swerving,  _ 

As  there  were  nothing  else  than  dirt  on  earth  1 

Yet  what  is  thy  reward  ?     Nay,  do  not  start  1 
I  do  not  mean  to  give  thee  a  new  damper; 

But  while  thou  fiUest  this  industrious  part 

Of  washer,  wearer,  mangier,  presser,  stamper, 

Deserving  better  character — thou  art 
Wiiat  Bodkin  would  but  call — "  a  common  tramper* 

f  Comic  Annual,  183I. 


6o6 


The  Top  of  his  Profession. 


SONNET  TO  A  DEC  A  YED  SEAMAN,* 

Hail  !  seventy-four  cut  down  ! — Hail  !  Top  and  Lop, 

Unless  I'm  much  mistaken  in  my  notion, 
Thou  wast  a  stirring  tar,  before  that  hop 

Became  so  fatal  to  thy  locomotion  ; — 
Now,  thrown  on  shore,  like  a  mere  weed  of  ocean, 

Thou  feadest  still  to  men  a  lesson  good, 
To  king  and  country  showing  thy  devotion, 

By  kneeling  thus  upon  a  stump  of  wood  t 
Still  is  thy  spirit  strong  as  alcohol ; 

Spite  of  that  limb,  begot  of  acorn-egg, 
Methinks — thou  naval  history  in  one  vol.— 

A  virtue  shines,  e'en  in  that  timber  leg  ; 
For,  unlike  others  that  desert  their  Poll, 

Thou  walkest  ever  with  thy  "  Constant  Peg  I* 

*  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


6o7 


HUGGINS  AND  DUG  GINS, 

A  PASTORAL  AFTER  POPE.* 

Two  swains  or  clowns — but  call  them  swaini— 

While  keeping  flocks  on  Salisbury  Plains,— 

For  all  that  tend  on  sheep  as  drovers 

Are  turn'd  to  songsters  or  to  lovers,— 

Each  of  the  lass  he  call'd  his  dear 

Began  to  carol  loud  and  clear. 

First  Huggins  sang,  and  Duggins  then. 

In  the  way  of  ancient  shepherd  men  ; 

Who  thus  alternate  hitch'd  in  song, 

**A11  things  by  turns,  and  nothing  long." 

HUGGINS. 

Of  all  the  girls  about  our  place, 
There's  one  beats  all  in  form  and  face ; 
Search  through  all  Great  and  Little  Bumpstead, 
You'll  only  find  one  Peggy  Plumstead. 

DUGGINS. 

To  groves  and  streams  1  tell  my  flame, 
I  make  the  cliffs  repeat  her  name  : 
When  I'm  inspired  by  gills  and  noggin% 
The  rocks  re-echo  Sally  Hoggins  I 

HUGGINS. 

When  I  am  walking  in  the  grov«^ 
I  think  of  Peggy  as  I  rove  : 
I'd  carve  her  name  on  every  treCi 
But  I  don't  know  my  A,  B,  C 

DUGGINS. 

Whether  I  walk  in  hill  or  valley, 
I  think  of  nothing  else  but  Sally  : 
I'd  sing  her  praise,  but  1  can  smg 
No  song,  except  "  God  save  the  King,* 

HUGGINS. 

My  Peggy  does  all  nymphs  excel, 
And  all  confess  she  bears  the  bell ; 
Where'er  she  goes  swains  flock  togethtfj 
Like  sheep  that  follow  the  bellwether. 

•  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


foS 


HUG  GINS  AND  DUG  GINS. 


DUGGINS. 


Sally  is  tall  and  not  too  straight,— 
Those  very  poplar  shapes  I  hate  ; 
But  something  twisted  like  an  S,— 
A  crook  becomes  a  shepherdess. 


HUGGINS. 


When  Peggy's  dog  her  arms  emprison, 
I  often  wish  my  lot  was  hisn  ; 
How  often  I  should  stand  and  turn, 
To  get  a  pat  from  hands  like  hern. 


DUGGINS. 


I  tell  Sail's  lambs  how  blest  they  be, 

To  stand  about  and  stare  at  she  ; 

But  when  I  look,  she  turns  and  shies, 

And  won't  bear  none  but  their  sheep's-eyei  I 


Follow  my  Leader. 


HUGGINS. 


Love  goes  with  Peggy  where  she  goes,'^ 
Beneath  her  smile  the  garden  grows, 
Potatoes  spring,  and  cabbage  starts, 
'Tatoes  have  eyes,  and  cabbage  hearts  1 


MUGGINS  AND  DUGGINS. 

DUGGINS. 

Where  Sally  goes  it's  always  Spring, 
Her  presence  brightens  everything  ; 
The  sun  smiles  bright,  but  where  her  grin  is^ 
It  makes  brass  farthings  look  like  guineas* 

HUGGINS. 

For  Peggy  I  can  have  no  joy, 
She's  sometimes  kind,  and  sometimes  avh 
And  keeps  me,  by  her  wayward  tricks, 
As  comfortless  as  sheep  with  ticks. 

DUGGINS. 

Sally  is  ripe  as  June  or  May, 
And  yet  as  cold  as  Christmas  Day ; 
For  when  she's  ask'd  to  change  her  laC* 
Lamb's  wool, — but  Sally,  she  wool  not 

HUGGINS. 

Only  with  Peggy  and  with  health, 
I'd  never  wish  for  state  or  wealth  ; 
Talking  of  having  health  and  more  penc% 
I'd  drink  her  health  if  I  had  fourpence» 

DUGGINS. 

Oh,  how  that  day  would  seem  to  shine^ 
If  Sally's  banns  were  read  with  mine  ; 
She  cries,  when  such  a  wish  I  carry, 
*  Marry  come  up  ! "  but  will  not  marry. 


Samsay's  Geaile  bhepberd. 


6io 


DOMESTIC  DIDACTICS. 

BY  AN  OLD  SERVANT.* 

IT  is  not  often,  when  the  Nine  descend,  that  they  go  so  tow  as  into 
areas  ;  it  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  they  were  in  the  habit  o^ 
visiting  John  Humphreys,  in  the  kitchen  of  No.  189  Portland  Place, 
disguised,  no  doubt,  from  mortal  eye,  as  seamstresses  or  charwomen 
■ — at  all  events,  as  Winifred  Jenkins  says,  "they  were  never  ketclrd  in 
the  fact."  Perhaps  it  was  the  rule  of  the  house  to  allow  no  followers,  and 
they  were  obliged  to  come  by  stealth,  and  to  go  in  the  same  manner  ; 
indeed,  from  the  fragmental  nature  of  John's  verses,  they  appear  to 
have  often  left  him  very  abruptly.  Other  pieces  bear  witness  of  the 
severe  distraction  he  suffered  between  his  domestic  duty  to  the  Umphra- 
villes,  twelve  in  family,  with  their  guests,  and  his  own  secret  visitors 
from  Helicon.     It  must  have  been  provoking,  when   seeking  for  a 


Not  up  yet  I 

rimrie,  to  be  sent  in  search  of  a  salt-cellar ;  or  when  hunting  for  a 
rhyme,  to  have  to  look  for  a  missing  teaspoon.      By  a  whimsical 

Eeculiarity,  the  causes  of  these  lets  and  hindrances  are  recorded  in 
is  verses  by  way  of  parenthesis  :  and  though  John's  poetry  was  of  a 

*  Comic  Annual,  1 832. 


DOMESTIC  DIDACTICS.     .  «i: 

decidedly  serious  and  moralising  turn,  these  little  insertions  give  it  so 
whimsical  a  character  as  to  make  it  an  appropriate  offering  in  the 
present  work.  Poor  John  !  the  gr.nve  has  put  a  period  to  his  didactics, 
and  the  publication  of  his  lays,  therefore,  cannot  give  him  pain,  as 
it  certainly  would  have  done  otherwise,  for  the  MSS.  were  left  by 
last  will  and  testament  "to  his  very  worthy  master,  Joshua  Umph- 
raville,  Esq.,  to  be  printed  in  Elegnnt  Extracts  or  Flowers  of  English 
Poetry."  The  editor  is  indebted  to  the  kmdness  of  that  gentleman 
for  a  selection  from  the  papers,  which  he  has  been  unable  to  arrange 
chronologically,  as  John  always  wrote  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  put 
dates.  Whether  he  ever  sent  any  pieces  to  the  periodicals  is  unknown, 
for  he  kept  his  authorship  as  secret  as  Junius's  till  his  death  disco- 
vered his  propensity  for  poetry,  and  happily  cleared  up  some  points 
in  John's  character  which  had  appeared  to  his  disadvantage.  Thus, 
when  his  eye  was  "  in  fine  frenzy  rolling,"  bemused  only  with  Casta- 
lian  water,  he  had  been  suspected  of  being  "bemused  with  beer;" 
and  when  he  was  supposed  to  indulge  in  a  morning  sluggishness, 
he  was  really  rising  with  the  sun,  at  least  with  Apollo.  He  was 
accused  occasionally  of  shamming  deafness,  whereas  it  was  doubtless 
nothing  but  the  natural  difficulty  of  heiring  more  than  Nine  at  once. 
Above  all,  he  was  reckoned  almost  wilfully  unfortunate  in  his  break- 
age ;  but  it  appears  that  when  deductions  for  damage  were  made  from 
his  wages,  the  poetry  ought  to  have  been  stopped,  and  not  the  money. 
The  truth  is,  John's  master  was  a  classical  scholar,  and  so  accus- 
tomed to  read  of  Pegasus,  and  to  associate  a  poet  with  a  horseman,  that 
he  never  dreamt  of  one  as  a  footman. 

The  editor  is  too  diffident  to  volunteer  an  elaborate  criticism  of  the 
merits  of  Humphreys  as  a  bard,  but  he  presumes  to  say  this  much, 
that  there  are  several  authors  of  the  present  day  whom  John  ought  not 
to  walk  behind. 

THE  BROKEN  DISH. 

What's  life  but  full  of  care  and  doubt. 

With  all  its  fine  humanities  ; 
With  parasois  we  walk  about. 

Long  pigtails  and  such  vanities. 

We  plant  pomegranate  trees  and  things, 

And  go  in  gardens  sporting, 
With  toys  and  fans  of  peacocks'  wings 

To  painted  ladies  courting. 

We  gather  flowers  of  every  hue, 

And  fish  in  boats  for  fishes. 
Build  summer-houses  painted  blue,— 

But  life's  as  frail  as  dishes. 

Walking  about  their  groves  of  trees, 

Blue  brid;4es  and  blue  rivers, 
How  little  thought  them  two  Chinese 

They'd  both  be  smash'd  to  shivers. 


fiS  DOMESTIC  DIDACTICS, 

ODE  TO  PEACE. 

IITRITTEN  ON  THE  NIGHT  OF  MY  MISTRESS'S  GRAND  ROUT. 

O  Peace  !  oh  come  with  me  and  dwell- 
But  stop,  for  there's  the  bell. 

O  Peace  !  for  thee  I  go  and  sit  in  churches, 
On  Wednesday,  when  there's  very  few 
In  loft  or  pew — 

Another  ring,  the  tarts  are  come  from  Birch  s. 

O  Peace  !  for  thee  1  have  avoided  marriage- 
Hush  !  there's  a  carriage. 

O  Peace  !  thou  art  the  best  of  earthly  goods— 
The  five  Miss  Woods. 

O  Peace  !  thou  art  the  goddess  I  adore- 
There  come  some  more. 

O  Peace  !  thou  child  of  solitude  and  quiet^ 

That's  Lord  Drum's  footman,  for  he  loves  a  riot, 

O  Peace  !— 

Knocks  will  not  cease. 
O  Peace  !  thou  wert  for  human  comfort  plann'd— ■ 

That's  Weippert's  band. 
O  Peace  I  how  glad  I  welcome  thy  approaches— 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coaches. 
O  Peace  !  O  Peace  ! — another  carriage  stops^ 

It's  early  for  the  Blenkinsops. 

O  Peace  !  with  thee  I  love  to  wander, 

But  wait  till  I  have  show'd  up  Lady  Squander  j 

And  now  I've  seen  her  up  the  stair, 

O  Peace ! — but  here  comes  Captain  Hare. 

O  Peace  !  thou  nrt  the  slumber  of  the  mind. 

Untroubled,  calm  and  quiet,  and  unbroken— 

If  that  is  Alderman  Guzzle  from  Portsoken, 

Alderman  Gobble  won't  be  far  behind. 

O  Peace!  serene  in  worldly  shyness — 

Make  way  there  for  his  Serene  Highness! 

0  Peace  !  if  you  do  not  disdain 
To  dwell  amongst  the  menial  train, 

1  have  a  silent  place,  and  lone, 
That  you  and  I  may  call  our  own, 
Where  tumult  never  makes  an  entry- 
Susan,  what  business  have  you  in  my  pantry  ? 

O  Peace ! — but  there  is  Major  Monk, 
At  variance  with  his  wife.     O  Peace  ! — 
And  that  great  German,  Vander  Trunk, 
And  that  great  talker.  Miss  Apreece. 


DOMESTIC  DIDACTICS,  flj 

O  Peace  !  so  dear  to  poets'  quills — 
They  re  just  beginning  their  quadrilles. 

0  Peace  !  our  greatest  renovator — 

1  wonder  where  I  put  my  waiter. 

0  Peace  ! — but  here  my  ode  I'll  cease  ; 

1  have  no  peace  to  write  of  Peace. 


A  FEW  LINES  ON  COMPLETING  FORTY-SEVEN, 

When  I  reflect,  with  serious  sense, 

While  years  and  years  run  on. 
How  soon  I  may  be  summon'd  hence— 

There's  cook  a-calling  John. 

Our  lives  are  built  so  frail  and  poor, 

On  sand,  and  not  on  rocks, 
We're  hourly  standing  at  Death's  door— 

There's  some  one  double-knocks. 

AH  human  days  have  settled  terms, 

Our  fates  we  cannot  force  ; 
This  flesh  of  mine  will  feed  the  worms— 

They're  come  to  lunch,  of  course. 

And  when  my  body's  turn'd  to  clay, 
And  dear  friends  hear  my  knell, 

Oh,  let  them  give  a  sigh  and  say— 
I  hear  the  upstairs  bell. 


TO  MARY  HOUSEMAID, 
ON  valentine's  day. 

Mary,  you  know  I've  no  love-nonsense^ 
And,  though  I  pen  on  such  a  day, 

I  don't  mean  flirting,  on  my  conscience, 
Or  writing  in  the  courting  way. 

Though  Beauty  hasn't  form'd  your  feature, 
It  saves  you,  p'rhaps,  from  being  vain. 

And  many  a  poor  unhappy  creature 
May  wish  that  she  was  half  as  plain. 

Your  virtues  would  not  rise  an  inch, 

Although  your  shape  was  two  foot  taller, 

And  wisely  you  let  others  pinch 

Great  waists  and  feet  to  make  them  snaaller. 

You  never  try  to  spare  your  hands 
From  getting  red  by  household  duty, 


6i4 


PAIN  IN  A  PLEASURE-BOAT, 

But,  doing  all  that  it  commands, 
Their  coarseness  is  a  moral  beauty. 

Let  Susan  flourish  her  fair  arms, 
And  at  your  odd  legs  sneer  and  scoff; 

But  let  her  laugh,  for  you  have  charms 
That  nobody  knows  nothing  ot 


What  odd  legs  1 


FAIN  IN  A  PLEASURE-B OA  T, 

A  SEA  ECLOGUE  • 
•I  ^iprehend  you  I " — School  of  Reform, 

Boatman. 
Shove  off  there  I — ship  the  rudder,  Bill — cast  off!  she's  under  way  t 

Mrs  F. 
She's  under  what  ? — I  hope  she's  not ! — good  gracious,  what  a  spray  I 

Boatman. 
Run  out  the  jib,  and  rigHhe  boom  ! — keep  clear  of  those  two  brigs  I 

Mrs  F. 
I  hope  they  don't  intend  some  joke  by  running  of  their  rigs  I 

Boatman. 
Bill,  shift  them  bags  of  ballast  aft — she's  rather  out  of  trim  1 

Mrs  F. 
Great  bags  of  stones  !  they're  pretty  things  to  help  a  boat  to  swiml 

•  Comic  Annual,  1S31. 


PAIN  IN  A  PLEASURE-BOAT,  '6l5 

Boatman. 
The  wind  is  fresh — if  she  don't  scud,  it's  not  the  breeze's  fault  I 

Mrs  F. 
Wind  fresh,  indeed !  I  never  felt  the  air  so  full  of  salt  1 

Boatman. 
That  schooner.  Bill,  harn't  left  the  roads,  with  oranges  and  nuts  I 

Mrs  F. 
If  seas  have  roads,  they're  very  rough — I  never  felt  such  ruts  1 


See-view  : — Broad  Stares, 

Boatman. 
It's  neap,  ye  see  ;  she's  heavy  lade,  and  couldn't  pass  the  bar. 

Mrs  F. 
The  bar  !  what,  roads  with  turnpikes  too  ?— I  wonder  where  they  are  I 

Boatman. 
Ho  !  brig  ahoy  !  hard  up  !  hard  up  !— that  lubber  cannot  steer! 


,<l6  PAIN  IN  A  PLEASURE-BOAT, 

Mrs  F. 

Yes,  yes  I  hard  up  upon  a  rock  !  I  know  some  dangler's  near! 
Lord  !  there's  a  wave  ! — it's  coming  in  !  and  roaring  like  a  bull  I 

Boatman. 
Nothing,  ma'am,  but  a  little  slop !— go  large,  Bill !  keep  her  full ! 

Mrs  F. 

What !  keep  her  full ! — what  daring  work  !  when  full,  she  must  go 
down ! 

Boatman. 

Why,  Bill,  it  lulls !  ease  off  a  bit — it's  coming  off  the  town  ! 
Steady  your  helm  1  we'll  clear  the  Pint !  lay  right  for  yonder  pink  1 

Mrs  F. 
Be  steady !  well,  I  hope  they  can  !  but  they've  got  a  pint  of  drink  I 

Boatman. 
Bill,  give  that  sheet  another  haul — she'll  fetch  it  up  this  reach, 

Mrs  F. 

I'm  getting  rather  pale,  I  know,  and  they  see  it  by  that  speech  I 
I  wonder  what  it  is,  now,  but 1  never  felt  so  queer  I 

Boatman. 
Bill,  mind  your  luff— why.  Bill,  I  say,  she's  yawing — keep  her  near  I 

MrsF. 
Keep  near  1  we're  going  farther  off;  the  land's  behind  our  backs. 

Boatman. 

Be  easy,  ma'am,  it's  all  correct ;  that's  only  'cause  we  tacks  : 
We  shall  have  to  beat  about  a  bit ; — Bill,  keep  her  out  to  sea. 

Mrs  F. 
Beat  who  about  ?  keep  who  at  sea  ? — how  black  they  look  at  me  I 

Boatman. 
It's  veering  round — I  knew  it  would  ! — off  with  her  head  !  stand  by  I 

Mrs  F. 

Off  with  her  head  I — whose  ?  where  ?  what  with  ? — an  axe  I  seem  t« 
spy! 


FAIN  IN  A  PLEASURE-BOAT, 


617 


Boatman. 
She  can't  not  keep  her  own,  you  see  ;  we  shall  have  to  pull  her  In  t 

Mrs  F. 
They'll  drown  me,  and  take  all  I  have  !  my  life's  not  worth  a  pin  1 

Boatman. 
Look  out,  you  know ;  be  ready,  Bill — just  when  she  takes  the  sand  1 

Mrs  F. 
The  sand  I — O  Lord  I  to  stop  my  mouth  I  how  every  thing  is  plann'd  1 

Boatman. 

The  handspike,  Bill — quick,  bear  a  hand  1  now,  ma'am,  just  step 
ashore ! 

Mrs  F. 

What !  an't  I  going  to  be  kill'd — and  welter'd  in  my  gore  ? 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised  1  but  I'll  not  go  a  sailing  any  more  1 


fiterae's  Maiuk 


6i8 


A  SPENT  BALL* 

"The  flying  ball."— Gray. 

A  BALL  !s  a  round,  but  not  a  perpetual  round,  of  pleasure.  Il 
spends  itself  at  last,  like  that  from  the  cannon's  mouth  ;  or  rather, 
like  that  greatest  of  balls,  "  the  great  globe  itself,"  is  "  dissolved  with 
all  that  it  inherits." 

P'our  o'clock  strikes.  The  company  are  all  but  gone,  and  the 
musicians  "put  up  "  with  their  absence.  A  few  "yf^/^rt'j-,"  however, 
remain,  that  have  never  been  danced,  and  the  hostess,  who  is  all 
urbanity  and  turbanity,  kindly  hopes  that  they  will  stand  up  for  "  one 
set  more."  The  six  figures  jump  at  the  offer  :  they  "wake  the  harp," 
get  the  fiddlers  into  a  fresh  scrape,  and  "  the  Lancers"  are  put  throuj^^h 
their  exercise.  This  may  be  called  the  Dance  of  Death,  for  it  ends 
everything.  The  band  is  disbanded,  and  the  ball  takes  the  form  of  a 
family  circle.  It  is  long  past  the  time  when  churchyards  yawn,  but 
the  mouth  of  mamma  opens  to  a  bore,  that  gives  hopes  of  the  Thames' 
Tunnel.  Papa,  to  whom  the  ball  has  been  anythin:^  but  a  force-meat 
one,  seizes  eagerly  upon  the  first  eatables  he  can  catch,  and  with  his 
mouth  open  and  his  eyes  shut,  declares,  in  the  spirit  of  an  ''  Ex- 
aminer" into  such  things,  that  a  "party  is  the  madness  of  many  for 
the  gain  of  a  few."     The  son,  heartily  tired  of  a  suit  of  broad-cloth  cut 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


LITERAR  Y  AND  LITERAL.  615 

narrow,  assents  to  the  proposition,  and  having  no  further  use  for  his 
curled  head,  lays  it  quietly  on  the  shelf.  The  daughter  droyps  ;  art 
has  had  her  Almack's,  and  nature  establishes  a  free  and  easy.  Grace 
throws  herself,  skovv-wow  anyhow,  on  .in  ottom  m,  and  Good  Breed- 
ing crosses  her  legs.  Roses  begin  to  relax,  and  curls  to  unbend  them- 
selves ;  the  very  candles  seem  released  from  the  restraints  of  gentility, 
and  getting  low,  some  begin  to  smoke,  while  others  indulge  in  a  gutter. 
Muscles  and  sinews  feel  equally  let  loose,  and,  by  way  of  a  joke,  the 
cramp  ties  a  double-knot  in  Clarinda's  calf. 

Clarinda  screams.  To  this  appeal  the  maternal  heart  is  more  awake 
than  the  maternal  eyes,  and  the  maternal  hand  be.;ins  hastily  to  bestow 
its  friction,  not  on  the  leg  of  suffering,  but  on  the  leg  of  the  sofa.  In 
the  meantime,  paternal  hunger  gets  satisfied  ;  he  eats  slower,  and  sleeps 
faster,  subsiding,  like  a  gorged  boa-constrictor,  into  torpidity  ;  and  in 
this  state,  grasping  an  extinguished  candle,  he  lights  himself  up  to  bed. 
Clarinda  follows,  stumbling  through  her  steps  in  a  doze-a-doze  ;  the 
brother  is  next  ;  and  mamma,  having  seen  with  half  an  eye,  or  some- 
thing less,  that  all  is  safe,  winds  up  the  procession. 

Every  ball,  however,  has  its  rebound,  and  so  has  this  in  their 
dreams  : — with  the  mother,  who  has  a  daughter,  as  a  golden  ball  ;  with 
the  daughter,  who  has  a  lover,  as  an  eyeball  ;  with  the  son,  who  has  a 
rival,  as  a  pistol-ball  ;  but  with  the  father,  who  has  no  dreams  at  all, 
as  nothing  but  the  blacking-ball  of  oblivion. 


LITERARY  AND  LITERAL* 

The  march  of  Mind  upon  its  mighty  stilts 

(A  spirit  by  no  means  to  fasten  mocks  on), 

In  travelling  through  Berks,  Beds,  Notts,  and  Wilts, 

Hants,  Bucks,  Herts,  Oxon, 
Got  up  a  thing  our  ancestors  ne'er  thought  00^ 
A  thing  that  only  in  our  proper  youth 
We  should  have  chuckled  at — in  sober  truth, 
A  conversazione  at  Hog's  Norton  ! — 

A  place  whose  native  dialect,  somehow, 
Has  always  by  an  adage  been  affronted. 
And  that  it  is  all  gutturals  is  now 
Taken  for  grunted. 

Conceive  the  snoring  of  a  greedy  swine. 
The  slobbering  of  a  hungry  ursine  sloth— 
If  you  have  ever  heard  such  creature  dine— 
And,  for  Hog's  Norton,  make  a  mix  of  both! 

O  shades  of  Shakespeare  !  Chaucer  !  Spenser  t 

Milton  !  Pope  !  Gray  !  Waiton  ! 
O  Colinan  !  Kenny  !  Blanche  !  Poole!  Peakel 

Pocock  !  Reynolds  I  Morton  ! 

•  Comic  Annual,  183a 


§ao  LITERARY  AND  LITERAL, 

O  Grey!  Peel  !  Sadler !  Wilberforce  !  BurdettI 

Hume  !  Wilmot  Horton  ! 
Think  of  your  prose  and  verse,  and  worse — deliver'd  in 
Hog's  Norton  I 

The  founder  of  Hog's  Norton  Athenaeum 

Framed  her  society 

With  some  variety 
From  Mr  Roscoe's  Liverpool  museum  ; 
Not  a  mere  picnic,  for  the  mind's  repast, 
But  tempting  to  the  solid  knife-and-forker, 
It  held  its  sessions  in  the  house  that  last 

Had  kill'd  a  porker. 

It  chanced  one  Friday, 
One  Farmer  Grayley  stuck  a  very  big  hog, 
A  perfect  Gog  or  Magog  of  a  pig-hog, 
Which  made  of  course  a  literary  high  day  ;•— 
Not  that  our  farmer  was  a  man  to  go 
With  literary  tastes— so  far  from  suiting  'em— 
When  he  heard  mention  of  Professor  Crowt, 


•Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  self  in  print." 

Or  Lz\\3i-Rookh, — he  always  was  for  shooting  'em  I 
In  fact,  in  letters  he  was  quite  a  log  j 

With  him  great  Bacon 

Was  literally  taken, 


LITERARY  AND  LITERAL,  6si 

And  Hogg— the  poet — nothing  but  a  hog ! 

As  to  air  others  on  the  Ust  of  fame, 

Although  they  were  discuss'd  and  mention'd  dailjrj 

He  only  recognised  one  classic  name, 

And  thought  that  she  had  hung  herself— ^/jj  Baillitt 

To  balance  this,  our  farmer's  only  daughter 
Had  a  great  taste  for  the  Castalian  waici"— - 
A  Wordsworth  worshipper — a  Southey  wooer— 
(Though  men  that  deal  in  water-colour  cakes 
May  disbelieve  the  fact — yet  nothing's  truer)— 

She  got  the  bluer 
The  more  she  dipp'd  and  dabbled  in  the  Lakes, 
The  secret  truth  is,  Hope,  the  old  deceiver. 
At  future  authorship  was  apt  to  hint, 
Producing  what  some  call  the  Type-tis  fever, 
Which  means  a  burning  to  be  seen  in  print. 

Of  learning's  laurels — Miss  Joanna  Baillie— 

Of  Mrs  Hemans — Mrs  Wilson — daily 

Dreamt  Anne  Priscilla  Isabella  Grayley  ; 

And  fancy  hinting  that  she  had  the  better 

Of  L.  E.  L.  by  one  initial  letter, 

She  thought  the  world  would  quite  enraptured  see 

•*LovE  Lays  and  Lyrics 

BY 

A.  P.  L  G .» 

Accordingly,  with  very  great  propriety, 
She  joined  the  H.  N.  B.  and  double  S., — ^ 
That  is.  Hog's  Norton  Blue  Stocking  Society; 
And  saving  when  her  pa  his  pigs  prohibited. 

Contributed 
Her  pork  and  poetry  towards  the  mess. 

This  feast,  we  said,  one  Friday  was  the  case, 
When  Farmer  Grayley — from  Macbeth  to  quote- 
Screwing  his  courage  to  the  "  sticking  place," 
Stuck  a  large  knife  into  a  grunter's  throat; — 
A  kind  of  murder  that  the  law's  rebuke 
Seldom  condemns  by  shake  of  its  peruke, 
Showing  the  little  sympathy  of  big-wigs 
With  pig-wigs  I 

The  swine — poor  wretch  !— with  nobody  to  speak  for  i^ 
And  beg  its  life,  resolved  to  have  a  squeak  for  it ; 


Caa  tTTERARY  AND  LITERAL. 

So — lilce  the  fabled  swan — died  singing  out, 
And  thus  there  issued  from  the  farmer's  yard 
A  note  that  notified,  without  a  card, 
An  invitation  to  the  evening  rout. 

And  when  the  time  cnme  duly, — "  At  the  close  of 
The  day,"  as  Beattie  has  it — "  when  the  ham — " 
Bacon,  and  pork  were  ready  to  dispose  of, 
And  pettitoes  and  chit'lini^'s  too,  to  cram,— 
"Walked  in  the  H.  N.  B.  and  double  S.'s, 
All  in  appropriate  and  swinish  dresses  ; 
For  lo  ! — it  is  a  fact,  and  not  a  joke. 
Although  the  Muse  might  fairly  jest  upon  it, — 
They  came — each  "  Pig-faced  Lady,"  in  that  bonnet 
We  zzS\-apoke, 


Breaking  Up,  no  Holiday. 

The  members  all  assembled  thus,  a  rare  woman 
At  pork  and  poetry  was  chosen  chairwoman:-^ 
In  fact,  the  bluest  of  the  blues,  Miss  Ikey, 
Whose  whole  pronunciation  was  so  pig:^. 
She  always  named  the  authoress  of  "Psyche**-^ 
As  Mrs  Tiggeyl 

And  now  arose  a  question  of  some  moment,—" 

What  author  for  a  lecture  was  the  richer. 

Bacon  or  Hogg  ?     There  were  no  votes  for  Beaumont^ 

But  some  for  Flitcher ; 
While  others,  with  a  more  sagacious  reasoning^ 

Proposed  another  work, 

And  thought  their  pork 
Would  prove  more  relishing  from  Thomson's  Season-ing ! 


LITERARY  AND  LITERAL, 

But,  practised  in  Shnkespearean  readings  daily,— 
O  Miss  Macaulay  !     Shakespeare  at  Hog's  Norton  J- 
Miss  Anne  Priscilla  Isabella  Grayley 
Selected  /«';«  that  evening  to  snort  on. 
In  short,  to  make  our  story  not  a  big  tale, 
Just  fancy  her  exerting 

Her  talents,  and  converting 
The  "  Winter's  Tale  "  to  something  like  a  pig-tale  I 

Her  sister  auditory. 
All  sitting  round,  with  grave  and  learned  faces, 

Were  very  plauditory. 
Of  course,  and  clapp'd  her  at  the  proper  places  ; 
Till,  fann'd  at  once  by  Fortune  and  the  Muse, 
She  thought  herself  the  blessedest  of  blues. 
But  happiness,  alas  !  has  blights  of  ill, 
And  pleasure's  bubbles  in  the  air  explode  ;— 
There  is  no  travelling  through  life  but  still 
The  heart  will  meet  with  breakers  on  the  road  I 

With  that  peculiar  voice 
Heard  only  from  Hog's  Norton  throats  and  nosei^ 
Miss  G.,  with  Perdita,  was  making  choice 
Of  buds  and  blossoms  for  her  summer  posies, 
When,  coming  to  that  line  where  Prosperine 
Lets  fall  her  flowers  from  the  wain  of  Dis  ; 

Imagine  this — 
Uprose  on  his  hind  legs  old  Farmer  Grayley, 
Grunting  this  question  for  the  club's  digestion, 
**Do  Duis  Waggon  go  from  the  Quid  Baaley?* 


62S 


6a4 


Dicky  BirdJi 


SONNET. 

TO  LORD  WHARNCLIFFE,  ON  HIS  GAME-BILL.* 

1^  fond  of  partridges,  I'm  fond  of  snipes, 

I'm  fond  of  blackcocks,  for  they're  very  good  cocks— 

I'm  fond  of  wild  ducks,  and  I'm  fond  of  woodcocks, 

And  grouse,  that  set  up  such  strange  moorish  pipes* 

I'm  fond  of  pheasants  with  their  splendid  stripes— 

I'm  fond  of  hares,  whether  from  Whig  or  Tory— 

I'm  fond  of  capercailzies  in  their  glory, — 

Teal,  widgeons,  plovers,  birds  in  all  their  types : 

All  these  are  in  your  care,  law-giving  Peer, 

And  when  you  next  address  your  Lordly  Babd^ 

Some  clause  put  in  your  Bill,  precise  and  clear, 

With  due  and  fit  provision  to  enable 

A  man  that  holds  all  kinds  of  game  so  dear 

To  keep,  like  Crockford,  a  good  Gaming  Table. 

*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


62S 


^VO  VJVD  D  E.QWjV-£]^ 


An  Inn-quesL 


r^^    UNDYING    ONE.* 


'He  shall  not  die." — Uncle  Toby. 


Of  all  the  verses,  grave  or  gay, 

That  ever  wiled  an  hour, 
I  never  knew  a  mingled  lay, 

At  once  so  sweet  and  sour, 
As  that  by  Ladye  Norton  spun, 
And  christen'd  "The  Undying  One." 


These  twenty  years  he's  been  the  sam^ 
And  may  be  twenty  more  ; 

But  Memory's  pleasures  only  claim 
His  features  for  a  score  ; 

Yet  in  that  time  the  change  is  none — ■ 

Th'  image  of  th'  Undying  One  ! 


I'm  very  certain  that  she  drew 
A  portrait  when  she  penn'd 

That  picture  of  a  perfect  ]&vr. 
Whose  days  will  never  end ; 

I'm  sure  it  means  my  Uncle  Lunn, 

For  he  is  an  Undying  One. 


They  say  our  climate's  damp  and  cold. 
And  lungs  are  tender  things  ; 

My  uncle's  much  abroad  and  old, 
But  when  "  King  Cole  "  he  sings, 

A  Stentor's  voice,  enough  to  stun, 

Declares  him  an  Undying'  One. 


Comic  Annual,  1832. 


2  R 


6a6 


^^KLE  V.  CACKLE. 


▼. 

Others  have  died  from  needle-pricks 

And  very  slender  blows. 
From  accidental  slips  or  kicks. 

Or  bleedings  at  the  nose  ; 
Or  choked  by  grape-stone,  or  a  bun— 
But  he  is  the  Undying  One  I 


IX. 

He's  been  from  strangulation  blad^ 

From  bile,  of  yellow  hue, 
Scarlet  from  fever's  hot  attack, 

From  cholera-morbus  blue  ; 
Yet  with  these  dyes — to  use  a  pun—* 
He  still  is  the  Undying  One. 


A  soldier  once,  he  once  endured 

A  bullet  in  the  breast — 
It  might  have  kill'd — but  only  cured 

An  asthma  in  the  chest ; 
He  was  not  to  be  slain  with  gun, 
For  he  is  the  Undying  One. 

VII. 

In  water  once  too  long  he  dived. 
And  all  supposed  him  beat. 

He  seem'd  so  cold — but  he  revived 
To  have  another  heat, 

Just  when  we  thought  his  race  was  run, 

And  came  in  fresh — th'  Undying  One  I 

VIII. 
To  look  at  Meux's  once  he  went. 

And  tumbled  in  the  vat — 
And   greater  Jobs   their    lives    have 
spent 
Tn  lesser  boils  than  that  ; — 
He  left  the  beer  quite  underdone, 
No  bier  to  the  Undying  One  1 


He  rolls  in  wealth,  yet  has  no  wife 
His  Three  per  Cents  to  share  ; 

He  never  married  in  his  life, 
Or  flirted  with  the  fair  ; 

The  sex  he  made  a  point  to  shun. 

For  beauty  an  Undying  One. 


To  judge  him  by  the  present  signa^ 

The  future  by  the  past. 
So  quick  he  lives,  so  slow  declines^ 

The  Last  Man  won't  be  last, 
But  buried  underneath  a  ton 
Of  mould  by  the  Undying  One  I 


Next  Friday  week,  his  birthday  boast^ 
His  ninetieth  year  he  spends. 

And  I  shall  have  his  health  to  toast 
Amongst  expectant  friends, 

And  wish — it  really  sounds  like  fua-^ 

Long  life  to  the  Undying  OmO  1 


COCKLE  V.  CACKLE* 

Those  who  much  read  advertisements  and  bills, 
Must  have  seen  putTs  of  Cockle's  Pills, 

Call'd  anti-bilious — 
Which  some  physicians  sneer  at,  supercilious, 
But  which  we  are  assured,  if  timely  taken, 

May  save  your  liver  and  bacon. 
Whether  or  not  they  really  give  one  ease^ 

I,  who  have  never  tried, 

Will  not  decide  ; 
But  no  two  things  in  union  go  like  these — 
Viz.,  quacks  and  pills — save  ducks  and  peasCU 
Now  Mrs  W.  was  getting  sallow, 
Her  lilies  not  of  the  white  kind,  but  yellow. 
And  friends  portended  was  preparing  for 

A  human  Pitd  Pdrigord  ; 

•  Comic  Annual,  1831. 


COCKLE  V.  CACKLE. 

She  was,  indeed,  so  very  far  from  well, 

Her  son,  in  filial  fear,  procured  a  box 

Of  those  said  pellets  to  resist  bile's  shocks, 

And — though  upon  the  ear  it  strangely  knocks— 

To  save  her  by  a  Cockle  from  a  shell  1 

But  Mrs  W.,  just  like  Macbeth, 
Who  very  vehemently  bids  us  "  throw 
Bark  to  the  bow-wows,"  hated  physic  so, 
It  seem'd  to  share  " the  bitterness  of  Death  :* 
Rhubarb — Magnesia — Jalap,  and  the  kind — 
Senna — Steel — AssafcEtida,  and  Squills- 
Powder  or  draught— but  least  her  throat  inclined 
To  give  a  course  to  boluses  or  pills  ; 
No — not  to  savf-  her  life,  in  lung  or  lobe, 
For  all  her  lights'  or  all  her  liver's  sake, 
Would  her  convulsive  thorax  undertake 
Only  one  little  uncelestial  globe  ! 

*Tis  not  to  wonder  at,  in  such  a  case. 
If  she  put  by  the  pili-box  in  a  place 
For  linen  rather  than  for  drugs  intended- 
Yet  for  the  credit  of  the  pills  let's  say, 

After  they  thus  were  stow'd  away, 

Some  of  the  linen  mended  ; 
But  Mrs  W.,  by  disease's  dint, 
Kept  getting  still  more  yellow  in  her  tint, 
When  lo  !  her  second  son,  like  elder  brother, 
Marking  the  hue  on  the  parental  gills, 
Brought  a  new  charge  of  anti-tumeric  pills, 
To  bleach  the  jaundiced  visage  of  his  mother— 
Who  took  them — in  her  cupboard — like  the  otheTe 

•*  Deeper  and  deeper,  still,"  of  course. 
The  fatal  colour  daily  grew  in  force  ; 
Till  daughter  W.,  newly  come  from  Rome, 
Acting  the  self-same  filial,  pillial  part, 
To  cure  mamma,  another  dose  brought  home 
Of  Cockles  ; — not  the  cockles  of  her  heart ! 

These  going  where  the  others  went  before, 
Of  course  she  had  a  very  pretty  store  ; 
And  then — some  hue  of  health  her  cheek  adorning, 
The  medicine  so  good  must  be. 
They  brought  her  dose  on  dose,  which  she 
Gave  to  the  upstairs  cupboard,  "  night  and  morning," 
Till  wanting  room,  at  last,  for  other  stocks. 
Out  of  the  window  one  fine  day  she  pitch  d 
The  pillage  of  each  box,  and  quite  ennch'd 
The  feed  of  Mister  Burrell's  hens  and  cO(_ks,— 
A  little  barber  of  a  bygone  day, 
Over  the  way, 


taM  COCKLE  V.  CACKLE. 

Whose  stock  in  trade,  to  keep  the  least  of  shops. 
Was  one  great  head  of  Kemble, — that  is,  John, 
Staring  in  plaster,  with  a  Brutus  on, 
And  twenty  little  bantam  fowls — with  crops. 

Little  Dame  W.  thought,  when  through  the  sash 

She  gave  the  physic  wings, 

To  find  the  very  thmgs 
So  good  for  bile,  so  bad  for  chicken  rash, 
For  thoughtless  C'  -ck,  and  unreflecting  pullet  ? 
But,  while  they  gather'd  up  the  nauseous  nubbles^ 
Each  peck'd  itself  into  a  peck  of  troubles. 
And  brought  the  h  ind  of  Death  upon  its  gullet. 
They  might  as  well  have  addled  been,  or  ratted. 
For  long  before  the  night — ah  !  woe  betide 
The  pills  ! — each  suicidal  bantam  died 
Unfatted  ! 

Think  of  poor  Burrell's  shock, 
Of  Nature's  debt  to  see  his  hens  all  payera, 
And  laid  m  death  as  everlasting  layers, 
With  Bantam's  sm.dl  Ex-Emperor,  the  cock, 
In  ruffled  plumage  and  funereal  hackle, 
Giving,  undone  by  Cockle,  a  last  cackle  I 
To  see  as  stiff  as  stone  his  un'live  stock, 
It  really  was  enough  to  move  his  block. 
Down  on  the  floor  he  dash'd,  with  horror  big, 
Mr  Bell's  third  wife's  mother's  coachman's  wig; 
And  with  a  tragic  stare  like  his  own  Kemble, 
Burst  out  with  natural  emphasis  enough, 

And  voice  that  grief  made  tremble, 
Into  that  very  speech  of  sad  Macduff — 
"What !  ail  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam, 

At  one  fell  swoop  ! — 

Just  when  I'd  bought  a  coop 
To  see  the  poor  lamented  creatures  cram  1" 

After  a  little  of  this  mood, 
And  brooding  over  the  departed  broo<^ 
With  razor  he  began  to  ope  each  craw, 
Already  turning  black,  as  black  as  coals; 
When  lo  !  the  undigested  cause  he  saw — 
"  Pison'd  by  goles  !  " 

To  Mrs  W.'s  luck  a  contradiction, 
Her  window  still  stood  open  to  conviction  ; 
And  by  short  course  of  circumstantial  labour. 
He  fix'd  the  guilt  upon  his  adverse  neighbours- 
Lord  !  how  he  rail'd  at  her  :  declaring  now, 
He'd  bring  an  action  ere  next  Term  of  Hilary, 
Then,  in  another  moment,  swore  a  vow. 
He'd  make  her  do  piU-penance  in  the  pillory  t 


COCKLE  V.  CACKLE. 

She,  meanwhile  distant  from  the  dimmest  dream 
Of  combatin.i(  with  guilt,  yard-arm  or  arm-yard, 
Lapp'd  in  a  paradise  of  tea  and  cream  ; 
When  up  ran  Betty  with  a  dismal  scream — 
"  Here's  Mr  Burrell,  ma'am,  with  all  his  farmyard  1* 
Straight  in  he  came,  unbowing  and  unbending, 
With  all  the  warmth  that  iron  and  a  barber 
Can  harbour ; 
To  dress  the  head  and  front  of  her  offending, 
The  fuming  phial  of  his  wrath  uncorking; 
In  short  he  made  her  pay  him  altogether, 
In  hard  cash,  very  hard  ior  every  feather, 
Charginjj;,  of  course,  each  bantam  as  a  Dorking ; 
Nothing  could  move  hiin,  nothing  make  him  supple; 
So  the  sad  dame  unpocketing  her  loss. 
Had  nothing  left  but  to  sit  hands  across, 
And  see  her  poultry  "  going  down  ten  couple." 

Now  birds  by  poison  slain, 

As  venorn'd  dart  froin  Indian's  hollow  cane, 

Are  edible  ;  and  Mrs  W.'s  thrift, — 

She  had  a  thrifty  vein, — 
Destined  one  pair  for  supper  to  make  shift,-^ 
Supper  as  usual  at  the  hour  of  ten  : 
But  ten  o'clock  arrived  and  quickly  pass'd, 
Eleven — twelve — and  one  o'clock  at  last, 
Without  a  sign  of  supper  even  then  ! 
At  length,  the  speed  of  cookery  to  quicken, 
Betty  was  call'd,  and  with  reluctant  feet, 

Came  up  at  a  white  heat — 
"Well,  never  I  see  chicken  like  them  chicken  ! 
My  saucepans,  they  have  been  a  pretty  while  in  'env 
Enough  to  stew  them,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
To  flesh  and  bones,  and  perfect  rags  ;  but  drat 
Those  anti-biling  pills  !  there  is  no  bile  in  'em  1" 


629 


Halfpenny  Hatch. 


6^o 


Which  way  did  the  Fox  go? 


LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD  SPORTSMAN* 

Dear  Sir, — I  receaved  your's  of  the  first  last,  wich  I  should  have 
anser'd  it  sooner,  only  I  have  ad  the  Roomatiz  in  my  fingers,  so  you 
must  Pleas  to  excus  my  crampd  hand. 

As  to  my  Sportinij  Reminis-cences,  as  you  are  pleasd  to  say,  I  have 
lookd  them  out  in  the  dixenary,  and  kno  vtrry  well  what  it  is.  I 
beg  leaf  to  Say,  I  have  forgot  all  my  recolections,  and  can  not  bring  to 
Mind  any  of  my  old  Remeniberances. 

As  for  Hunting,  I  shall  never  take  a  fence  at  it  agen,  altho  I 
sumtims  Ride  to  cover  on  the  old  Gray,  wich  is  now  be  come  quite 
Wite.  The  last  tim  I  went  out,  we  dru  Hazelmere  copses  down  to 
Broxley  wood  ;  then  we  dru  Broxley  wood  over  to  Fox  thorp  ;  then 
we  dru  Fox  thorp  over  to  Middle  ford,  and  then  we  dru  Middle  ford, 
in  short,  it  was  all  drawing  and  no  painting  for  want  of  a  brush. 

Sir  William  Chase  cuming  to  be  his  father's  hare,  he  set  up  a  coars- 
ing  club,  but  being  short  of  long  dogs,  and  there  hairs  falling  of,  it  was 
obleged  to  discourse,  and  is  now  turned  into  a  conversasiony. 

In  regard  to  shuting,  I  have  never  dun  anny  thing  Since  percussion 
Captiousness  cum  up,  wich  I  am  Told  they  are  sharper  then  Flints. 
The  last  hare  I  kild  was  2  long  ears  ago,  and  the  Last  fezzant,  but 
theres  a  long  tail  belonging  to  that,  wich  you  shall  have  when  you 

*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD  SPORTSMAN. 


631 


cum  over,  as  I  hop  you  wil,  with  your  Horse's  ;  I  have  good  enter- 
tainment for  boath,  as  the  french  Say,  at  my  table  D'  oats.  The  lads 
go  out  after  Burds  now  and  then,  but  I  seldum  cum  at  the  rites  of 
there  shuting — you  kno 

Wat  is  Hits  is  Histery, 
But  what  is  mist  is  mistery. 

Talking  of  shuting,  hav  you  seen  Ubbard's  new  guns  like  wauking 
sticks — there  a  cappital  defence  agin  cappital  offences  ;  as  you  may 
ether  stick  a  feller  or  Shute  him  ;  or  boath  together.  I  wish  farmer 
Gale  had  carrid  one  last  friday,  for  he  was  Rob'd  cuniing  from  markit 
by  a  foot  paddy  Irish  man,  that  knockd  him  down  to  make  him 
Stand.  Luckly  he  had  nothing  on  him  when  Stopd  but  sum  notes  of 
the  Barnsby  bank  that  had  bin  stopd  the  weak  afore. 

In  the  fishing  line  I  am  ♦  ^       j. 

quite  Dead  bait,  tho  I  have  "^  ^  "«"'•'.  v 

had  manny  a  Good  run   in  is&A^ 

my  tim,  Partickler  when 
the  keeper  spide  me  out 
were  I  hadent  got  Leaf. 
The  last  tim  I  went  I  could 
hardly  un  do  my  rod  for 
roomatiz  in  my  joints,  and 
I  got  the  Lumbago  verry 
bad  wen  I  cum  Back,  and 
its  atax  I  doant  like.  Be- 
side wich  I  found  verry 
Little  big  fish  on  a  count 
of  the  pochers,  who  Kil 
em  al  in  colde  blood.  I 
used  sumtims  to  float  and 
sumtims  to  fli,  but  our 
waters  is  so  over  fished 
theres  no  fish  to  be  had, 
and  as  I  am  verry  musicle, 
I  dont  like  trolling  with* 
out  a  catch,  the  last  jack 
I  caut  was  with  my  boot, 
and  was  only  a  foot  long. 

As  for  raceing,  I  never 
cared  much  a  bout  it,  and  in  regard  of  betting,  I  am  Better  with  out 
it,  tho  I  al  ways  take  the  feeld  wen  I  am  Able,  and  suporc  the 
Farmer's  Plate  with  al  my  Mite. 

Our  Wist  club  is  going  of,  Some  of  the  members  go  on  so  ;  two  of 
em  are  perpetuly  quareling  like  anny  thintj  but  double  dummies,  for 
one  plays  like  Hoyle  and  the  other  like  Vinegar.  The  young  men 
hav  interduced  Shorts,  but  I  doant  think  theyle  Last  long.  They 
are  al  so  verry  Sharp  at  the  Pmts,  and  as  for  drinking,  I  never  se  sich 
Liquorish  Chaps  in  my  life.  They  are  al  ways  laying  ods,  even  at 
Super,  when  theyle  Bet  about  the  age  of  a  Roosted  foul,  wich  thi-y 
cal  Chicken  hazzard,  or  about  the  Wait  of  a  Curran  py,  wich  tlu  y  ca) 


Fly  Fishing. 


632 


LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD  SPORTSMAN". 


the  Currancy  question.  They  al  so  smoke  a  grate  manny  seagars,  but 
they  cant  Put  the  old  men's  pips  out,  wich  it  Wood  be  a  Burning 
shame  if  they  did.  I  am  sorry  to  say  poHticks  has  Crept  in  ;  Sum 
is  al  for  reform,  and  some  is  al  for  none  at  al,  and  the  only  thing  they 
agre  in  is,  that  the  Land  lord  shant  bring  in  no  Bil.  There  is  be  sides 
grate  dis-cushins  as  to  the  new  game  laws,  sum  entertaning  douts 
wen  sum  peple  go  out  a  shuting,  wether  even  acts  of  Parliament  will 
inable  them  to  shute  anny  game. 

The  crickit  Club  is  going  on  uncomon  wel.  They  are  36  members 
with  out  reknning  the  byes  ;  our  best  man  at  Wi(  kit  is  Captain  Batty 
— he  often  gets  four  notches  running  ;  and  our  best  boler  is  Use  Ball, 
tho  we.  sumtims  get  Dr  Pilby  to  bolus.  As  for  the  cnckit  Bal,  it  is 
quit  wore  out,  wich  the  gals  say  they  are  verry  Sory  for  it,  as  they 
took  a  grate  mtrest  in  our  matches. 

My  lads  are  boath  of  em  marred,  wich  mayhap  you  have  Herd, — 
and  if  the  gals  are  not,  J  Beleve  its  no  fait  of  theres.  They  hope 
youle  cum  to  the  Wake,  wich  is  next  Sunday  weak,  for  they  Say  there 
will  be  High  fun,  al  tho  I  think  it  is  Rather  Low.  The  only  use  of 
waking  t^at  I  can  See,  is  to  pervent  folkes  Sleeping,  and  as  for  there 


Where's  your  Hawker's  License  ? 

jumping  and  throwing  up  their  Heals,  I  see  no  Pleasur  in  it.  If  they 
had  the  Roomatiz  as  Bad  as  I  have,  they  woudent  be  for  Dancing 
there  fandangles  at  that  rat,  and  Kicking  for  partners. 

Our  county  Member,  Sir  William  Wiseacre,  is  going  to  bring  in  a 
bil  "for  the  supression  of  the  Barbarus  past-time  of  bul  beating,  and 
for  the  better  incorigement  of  the  nobul  art  of  Cockin,"  by  wich  al 


LETTER  FROM  AN  OLD  SPORTSMAN.  63s 

buls,  wether  inglish  or  Irish,  are  to  be  Made  crame  of  no  longer,  andal 
such  as  are  found  at  anny  ring  or  stake  are  libel  to  be  find.  They  cal 
it  here  the  Cock  and  Bui  Act,  wich  I  think  is  a  very  good  name.  It 
has  causd  grate  diversion  in  manny  peple's  opinnions,  but  most  of  us 
Think  the  cocks  is  quite  as  Bad  as  the  buls  The  same  Barrownet  as 
tried  to  interduce  Forkenry,  but  the  first  atempts  as  been  verry 
Hawkward.  The  forkcns  flu  at  a  henn,  who  tried  to  be  above  there 
atax,  for  the  more  they  pecktd  him  the  more  they  maid  him  sore,  but 
a  boy  flying  a  Kite  skared  em  al  away  togither. 

Last  week  was  our  grand  archery  Meetin,  and  the  first  prize  was 
won  by  Little  Master  Tomkins,  of  grove  House.  I  supose  his  fondnes 
for  lolii  pops  made  him  ame  best  at  bulls  Eyes.  The  Miss  Courtenays 
were  there  as  usul,  and  in  comparison  of  arch  Angles  look  raly 
archer. — The  wags  propposed  miss  Emily  shood  have  the  seccond 
prize  for  shuting  in  too  a  cows  Eye  that  came  to  nere  the  target  ;  she 
says  she  was  so  nervus,  it  put  her  arrow  into  a  quiver.  In  the  middle 
of  the  meeting  we  herd  a  Bad  playd  Key  buv^gle,  and  out  of  the 
shrubbery,  were  they  had  bin  hiding,  Jumpd  Revd.  Mister  Crumpe 
and  asistants  ;  he  is  Rector  of  Bow  and  Curat  of  Harrow,  and  was 
disgised  in  every  thing  green,  as  Robin  Hood  and  his  mery  Men  ; 
after  geting  Little  John  to  string  his  bow  for  him,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
Robin  Hood  shot  Worst  of  every  Body,  for  he  did  not  even  hit  the 
target,  and  we  should  have  never  Seen  wear  his  arrow  went,  but  by 
hereing  it  smash  in  to  the  conservatorry.  When  we  came  to  look  for 
the  prize,  a  silver  Arrow,  every  Body  had  lost  it,  for  it  had  dropt  out 
of  the  case,  and  would  never  have  been  found,  but  for  Revd.  mister 
Crumpe  sittin  downe  on  the  lawne,  and  wich  made  Him  jump  up 
agen,  as  miss  Courtenay  said  out  of  Bsron,  like  *'  a  warrior  bounding 
from  its  Barb."  The  Toxophilus  Club  is  very  flurrishing,  but  talk  of 
expeling  sum  members  for  persisting  in  wereing  peagreen  insted  of 
lincon,  and  puttin  on  there  Spanish  Hats  and  feihers  the  rong  side 
before. 

Thank  you  for  the  Hoisters,  wich  was  verry  good.  Mary  has  took 
the  shels  to  make  her  a  groto,  of  wich  I  think  is  very  shameful,  as  I 
wanted  them  to  Friten  the  Burds.  Old  Mark  Lane,  the  man  as 
Cheated  you  out  of  tliem  oats,  has  bean  sent  to  jail  for  Stealing  barly. 
I  am  sadly  Afearde  old  Marks  corn  will  give  Him  14  ears  of  Bottany. 

Pleas  to  Remember  me  to  al  inquiring  friends,  if  they  should  think 
it  woth  wile  to  Ask  after  me.     From  your  Humbel  servant, 

Andrew  Axeltree. 

P.S.  I  forgot  to  menshun  the  subskripshon  Stag  hounds  kep  by  the 
same  members  as  the  wist  club,  and  its  there  wim  to  have  fifty  too 
dogs  to  the  pack.  If  old  Bil,  the  huntsman,  was  drest  like  Pam, 
theyd  be  complet.  They  have  had  sum  capfjital  runs  dooring  the 
season.  As  you  write  for  the  sporting  Maggazins,  you  may  like  to 
notice  an  apereance  rathtr  noo  in  the  felde,  I  mean  the  Grate  Creol 
Cunel  Brown,  who  is  very  pompus,  and  hunts  with  Pumpey,  his 
black  servant,  after  him.  I  have  got  a  Deal  more  to  Say,  but  carnt 
for  want  of  Room.  Mary  says  I  should  Cros  it,  with  I  wood,  but  I 
doant  Wish  to  put  you  to  the  expense  of  a  Dubble  leter. 


634 


THE  SUB-MARINE.* 


It  was  a  biave  and  jolly  wight, 
His  cheek  was  baked  and  brown, 

For  he  had  been  in  many  climes 
With  captains  of  renown, 

And  fought  with  those  who  fought  so 
well 
At  Nile  and  Camperdown. 

His  coat  it  was  a  soldier  coat. 

Of  red  with  yellow  faced, 
But  (merman-like)  he  look'd  marine 

All  downward  from  the  waist — 
His  trowsers  were  so  wide  and  blue, 

And  quite  in  sailor  taste  1 

He  put  the  rummer  to  his  lips. 
And  drank  a  jolly  draught ; 

He  raised  the  rummer  many  times — 
And  ever  as  he  quaff'd, 

The  more  he  drank,  the  more  the  ship 
Seem'd  pitching  fore  and  aft  1 

The  ship  seem'd  pitching  fore  and  aft. 

As  in  a  heavy  squall ; 
It  gave  a  lurch  and  down  he  went, 
'     Head-foremost  in  his  fall ! 
Three  times  he  did  not  rise,  alas  I 

He  never  rose  at  all  1 

But  down  he  went,  right   down  at 
once. 

Like  any  stone  he  dived. 
He  could  not  see,  or  hear,  or  feel — 

Of  senses  all  deprived  ! 
At  last  he  gave  a  look  around 

To  see  where  he  arrived  1 

And  all  that  he  could  see  was  green, 
Sea-green  on  every  hand  ! 

And  then  he  tried  to  sound  beneath, 
And  all  he  felt  was  sand  ! 

There  he  was  fain  to  lie,  for  he 
Could  neither  sit  nor  stand  I 

And  lo  !  above  his  head  there  bent 
A  sUanj;e  and  staring  lass  1 


One  hand  was  in  her  yellow  hair. 

The  other  helc".  a  glass  ; 
A  mermaid  she  must  surely  be 
If  ever  mermaid  was  ! 

Her  fish-like  mouth  was  open'd  wide^ 
Her  eyes  were  blue  and  pale, 

Her  dress  was  of  the  ocean-green. 
When  ruffled  by  a  gale  ; 

Thought  he  "  Beneath  that  petticoat 
She  hides  a  salmon-tail ! " 

She  look'd  as  siren  ought  to  look, 

A  sharp  and  bitter  shrew. 
To  sing  deceiving  lullabies 

For  mariners  to  rue — 
But  when  he  saw  her  lips  apart, 

It  chill'd  him  through  and  through  ! 

With  either  hand  he  stopp'd  his  ears 

Against  her  evil  cry  ; 
Alas  !  alas  !  for  all  his  care, 

His  doom  it  seem'd  to  die  ; 
Her  voice  went  ringing  through  his 
head, 

It  was  so  sharp  and  high ! 

He  thrust  his  fingers  farther  in 

At  each  unwilling  ear, 
But  still,  in  very  spite  of  all. 

The  words  were  plain  and  clear : 
••I  can't  stand  here  the  whole  day 
long 

To  hold  your  glass  of  beer  ! " 

With  open'd  mouth  and  open'd  eyes, 

Up  rose  the  sub-marine, 
And  gave  a  stare  to  find  the  sands 

And  deeps  where  he  had  been: 
There  was  no  siren  with  her  glass, 

No  waters  ocean-green ! 

The  wet  deception  from  his  eyes 
Kept  fading  more  and  more, 

He  only  saw  the  barmaid  stand 
With  pouting  lip  before — 

The  small  green  parlour  of  The  Ship 
And  little  sanded  floor  1 


•  Comic  Annual,  183CX 


635 


Boarding-School. 


THE  ISLAND.* 

"Oh,  had  I  some  sweet  little  isle  of  my  own  I" — MoORB. 

IF  the  author  of  the  "  Irish  Melodies"  had  ever  had  a  little  isle  sa 
much  his  own  as  I  have  possessed,  he  might  not  have  found  it  so 
sweet  as  the  song  anticipates.  It  has  been  my  fortune,  like  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  Alex;)nder  Selkirk,  to  be  thrown  on  such  a  desolate  spot, 
and  I  felt  so  lonely,  though  I  had  a  follower,  that  I  wish  Moore  had 
been  there.  I  had  the  honour  of  being  in  that  tremendous  action  off 
Finisterre,  which  proved  an  end  of  the  earth  to  many  a  brave  fellow, 
I  was  ordered  with  a  boarding  party  to  forcibly  enter  the  Santissitna 
Trifiidada,  but  in  the  act  of  climbing  into  the  quarter-gallery,  which, 
however,  gave  no  quarter,  was  rebutted  by  the  butt-end  of  a  marine's 
gun,  who  remained  the  quarter-master  of  the  place.  I  fell  senseless 
into  the  sea,  and  should  no  doubt  have  perished  in  the  waters  of  obli- 
vion, but  lor  the  kindness  of  John  Monday,  who  picked  me  up  to  go 
adrift  with  him  in  one  of  the  ship's  boats.  All  our  oars  were  carried 
away,  that  is  to  say,  we  did  not  carry  away  any  oars,  and  while  shot 
was  raining,  our  feeble  haihng  was  unheeded.     In  short,  as  Shakespeare 

*  Comic  Annual^  1832. 


636 


THE  ISLAND. 


says,  we  were  drifted  off  by  "  the  current  of  a  heady  fight."  As  may 
be  supposed,  our  boat  was  anything  but  the  jolly-boat,  for  we  had  no 
provisions  to  spare  in  the  middle  of  an  immense  waste.  We  were,  in 
fact,  adrift  in  the  cutter  with  nothing  to  cut.  We  had  not  even  junk 
for  junketing,  and  nothing  but  salt  water,  even  if  the  wind  should 


The  Pound  of  Flesh. 

blow  fresh.  Famine  indeed  seemed  to  stare  each  of  us  in  the  face  ; 
that  is,  we  stared  at  one  another  ;  but  if  men  turn  cannibals,  a  great 
allowance  must  be  made  for  a  short  ditto.  We  were  truly  in  a  very 
disagreeable  pickle,  with  oceans  of  brine  and  no  beef,  and,  like  Shylock, 
I  fancy  we  would  have  exchanged  a  pound  of  gold  for  a  pound  of  flesh. 
The  more  we  drifted  Nor,  the  more  sharply  we  inclined  to  gnaw, — but 
when  we  drifted  Sow,  we  found  nothing  like  pork.  No  bread  rose  in 
the  east,  and  in  the  opposite  point  we  were  equally  disappointed.  We 
could  not  compass  a  meal  any  how,  but  got  mealy-mouthed  notwith- 
standing. We  could  see  the  sea-mews  to  the  eastward,  flying  over 
what  Byron  calls  the  Gardens  of  Gull.  We  saw  plenty  of  grampus, 
but  they  were  useless  to  all  intents  and  porpusses,  and  we  had  no  bait 
for  catching  a  bottle-nose. 

Time  hung  heavily  on  our  hands,  for  our  fast  days  seemed  to  pass 
very  slowly,  and  our  strength  was  rapidly  sinking  from  being  so  much 
afloat.  Still  we  nourished  hope,  though  we  had  nothing  to  give  her. 
But  at  last  we  lost  all  prospect  of  land,  if  one  may  so  say  when  no 
land  was  in  sight.  The  weather  got  thicker  as  we  were  getting  thinner; 
and  though  we  kept  a  sharp  watch,  it  was  a  very  bad  look-out.  We 
could  see  nothing  before  us  but  nothing  to  eat  and  drink.     At  last  the 


THE  ISLAND.  637 

fog  cleared  off,  and  we  saw  something  like  land  right  ahead,  but 
alas  !  the  wind  was  in  our  teeth  as  well  as  in  our  stomachs.  We 
could  do  nothing  but  keep  her  near,  and  as  we  could  not  keep  our- 
selves full,  we  luckily  suited  the  course  of  the  boat  ;  so  that  after  a 
tedious  beating  about — for  the  wind  not  only  gives  blows,  but  takes  a 
great  deal  of  beating — we  came  incontinently  to  an  island.  Here  we 
landed,  and  our  first  impulse  on  coming  to  dry  land  was  to  drink. 
There  was  a  little  brook  at  hand  to  which  we  applied  ourselves  till  it 


Catching  a  Bottle-Nose. 


seemed  actually  to  murmur  at  our  inordinate  thirst.  Our  next  care 
was  to  look  for  some  food,  for  though  our  hearts  were  full  at  our  escape, 
the  neighbouring  region  was  dreadfully  empty.  We  succeeded  in 
getting  some  natives  out  of  their  bed,  and  ate  them,  poor  things,  as 
fast  as  thiry  got  up,  but  with  some  difficulty  in  getting  them  open  ;  a 
common  oyster  knife  would  have  been  worth  the  price  of  a  sceptre. 
Our  next  concern  was  to  look  out  for  a  lodging,  and  at  last  we  dis- 
covered an  empty  cave,  reminding  me  of  an  old  inscription  at 
Portsmouth,  "  The  hole  of  this  place  to  let."  We  took  the  precaution 
of  rolling  some  great  stones  to  the  entrance,  for  fear  of  last  lodgers, — 
that  some  bear  miglit  come  home  from  business,  or  a  ti;-;er  to  tea. 
Here,  under  the  rock,  we  slept  without  rocking,  and  when,  through 
the  ni;4ht's  failing,  the  day  broke,  we  saw  with  the  first  instalment  of 
li;4ht  that  we  were  upon  a  small  desert  isle,  now  for  the  first  time  an 
Isle  of  Man.  Accordingly,  the  birds  in  this  wild  solitude  were  so  little 
wild,  that  a  number  of  boo'uies  and  noddies  allowed  themselves  to  be 
taken  by  hand,  though  the  asses  were  not  such  asses  as  10  be  caught. 
There  was  an  abundance  of  rabbits,  which  we  chased  unremittingly, 
ns  Hunt  runs  Warren  ;  and  when  coats  and  trousers  fell  short,  we 
clothed  our  skins  with  theirs,  till,  as  Monday  said,  we  each  represented 
a  burrow.  In  this  vyork  Monday  was  the  tailor,  for,  like  the  maker  of 
shadowy  rahbits  and  cocks  upon  the  wall,  he  could  turn  his  hand  to 
anything.  He  became  a  potter,  a  carpenter,  a  butcher,  and  a  baker — 
that  is  to  say,  a  master  butcher  and  a  m  ister  baker,  for  I  became 


638 


THE  ISLAND. 


merely  his  journeyman.  Reduced  to  a  state  of  nature — Monday's 
favourite  phrase  for  our  conditional  found  my  being  an  officer 
fulfilled  no  office  ;  to  confess  the  truth,  I  made  a  very  poor  sort  of 
sava.i^^e,  whereas  Monday,  I  am  persuaded,  would  have  been  made  a 
chief  by  any  tribe  whatever.  Our  situations  in  life  were  completely 
reversed  ;  he  became  the  leader  and  I  the  follower,  or  rather,  to  do 
justice  to  his  attachment  and  ability,  he  became  hke  a  strong  big 
brother  to  a  helpless  httle  one. 

We  remained  in  a  state  of  nature  five  years,  when  at  last  a  whaler 
of  Hull — though  the  hull  was  not  visible — showed  her  masts  on  the 


In  Embarrassed  Circumstances. 


horizon,  an  event  which  was  telegraphed  by  Monday,  who  began 
saying  his  prayers  and  dancing  the  college  hornpipe  at  the  same 
time  with  equal  fervour.  We  contrived  by  lighting  a  fire,  literally  a 
feu-de-joie,  to  make  a  sign  of  distress,  and  a  bo, it  came  to  our  signal 
deliverance.  We  had  a  prosperous  passage  home,  where  the  reader 
may  anticipate  the  happiness  that  awaited  us  ;  but  not  the  trouble 
that  was  in  store  for  me  and  Monday.  Our  parting  was  out  of  the 
question  ;  we  would  both  rather  have  parted  from  imr  sheet-anchor. 
We  attempted  to  return  to  our  rel.itive  rank,  but,  we  had  lived  so  long 
in  a  kind  of  liberty  and  equality,  that  we  could  never  resume  our 
grades.  The  state  of  iiatuie  remained  upi)ermost  with  us  both,  and 
Monday  still   watched   over  and   tended  me  like   Dominie  Sampson 


THE  KANGAROOS. 


639 


with  the  boy  Harry  Bertram  ;  go  where  I  would,  he  followed  with  the 
dogged  pertinacity  of  Tom  Pipes  ;  nnd  do  what  I  mi.^ht,  he  interfered 
wirh  the  resolute  vigour  of  John  Dory  in  "Wild  Oats."  This  dis- 
position involved  us  daily,  nay,  hourly,  in  the  most  embarrassing  cir- 
cumstances ;  and  how  the  connexion  might  have  terminated  I  know 
not,  if  it  had  not  been  speedily  dissiwlved  In  a  very  unexpected  manner. 
One  morning  poor  Monday  was  found  on  his  bed  in  a  sort  of  con- 
vulsion, which  barely  enabled  him  to  grasp  my  hand,  and  to  falter  out, 
•*  Good-bye,  I  am  go— going — back— to  a  state  of  nature." 


A  Good  Action  meets  its  own  Reward. 


THE  KANGAROOS, 

A  FABLE.* 

A  PAIR  of  married  kangaroos 

(The  case  is  oft  a  human  one  too) 
Were  greatly  puzzled  once  to  choose 

A  trade  to  put  their  eldest  son  to,— 
A  little  brisk  and  busy  chap. 

As  all  the  little  K.'s  just  then  are, 
About  some  two  months  off  the  lap  ; — 

They're  not  so  long  in  arms  as  men  are. 

A  twist  in  each  parental  muzzle 
Betray'd  the  hardship  of  the  puzzle — 

So  much  the  flavour  of  life's  cup 
Is  framed  by  early  wrong  or  right, 
And  kangaroos  we  know  are  quite 

Dependent  on  their  "  rearing  up." 
The  question,  with  its  ins  and  outs. 
Was  intricate  and  full  of  doubts  ; 

*  Comic  Annual,  1830. 


640  THE  KANGAROOS, 

And  yet  they  had  no  squeamish  caringt 
For  trades  unfit  or  fit  for  gentry, 
Such  notion  never  had  an  entry, 

For  they  had  no  armorial  bearings, 
Howbeit  they're  not  the  last  on  earth 
That  misht  indulge  in  pride  of  birth  ; 

Whoe'er  has  seen  their  infant  young 
Bob  in  and  out  their  mother's  pokes, 

Would  own,  with  very  ready  tongue, 
They  are  not  born  like  common  folks. 
Well,  thus  the  serious  subject  stood. 

It  kept  the  old  pair  watchful  nightly, 
Debating  for  young  Hopeful's  good, 
That  he  might  earn  his  livelihood. 

And  go  through  life  (like  them)  uprightly. 
Arms  would  not  do  at  all  ;  no,  marry, 
In  that  line  all  his  race  miscarry  ; 

And  agriculture  was  not  proper, 
Unless  they  meant  the  lad  to  tarry 

For  ever  as  a  mere  clodhopper.. 
He  was  not  well  cut  out  for  preaching, 

At  least  in  any  striking  style  ; 

And  as  for  beinj^  mercantile — 
He  was  not  form'd  for  over-reaching. 
The  law — why  there  still  fate  ill-starr'd  hia^ 
And  plainly  from  the  bar  debarr'd  him  : 
A  doctor —  who  would  ever  fee  him  ? 

In  music  he  could  scarce  engage ; 

And  as  for  going  on  the  stage, 
In  tragic  socks  I  think  I  see  him  I 

He  would  not  make  a  rigging-mounter ; 

A  haberdasher  had  some  merit, 
But  there  the  counter  still  ran  counter; 

For  just  suppose 

A  lady  chose 
To  ask  him  for  a  yard  of  ferret ! 
A  gardener  digging  up  his  beds. 
The  puzzled  parents  shook  their  heads. 
**  A  tailor  would  not  do  because" — 
They  paused  and  glanced  upon  his  paws. 
Some  parish  post, — though  fate  should  place  ll 
Before  him,  how  could  he  embrace  it? 

In  short,  each  anxious  kangaroo 
Discuss'd  the  matter  through  and  through  | 
By  day  they  seem'd  to  get  no  nearer, 

'Twas  posing  quite — 

And  in  the  night 
Of  course  they  saw  their  way  no  clearer ' 


ODE  FOR  THE  NINTH  OF  NOVEMBER. 

At  Inst,  thus  musing  on  their  knees — 

Or  hinder  elbows  if  you  please — 

It  came — no  thought  was  ever  brighter  t 

In  weighing  every  why  and  whether, 

They  jump'd  upon  it  both  toi^ether — 

**  Let's  make  the  imp  a  short-hand  writer  I* 

MORAL. 

I  wish  all  human  parents  so 

Would  argue  what  their  sons  are  fit  for  ; 
Some  would-be  critics  that  I  know 

Would  be  in  trades  they  have  more  wit  for. 


641 


J^'indiiig  a  May  Vs  Nest* 


ODE  FOR   THE  NINTH  OF  NOVEMBER.^ 


O  LUD  !  O  Lud !  O  Lud  ! 
I  mean,  of  course,  that  venerable  town, 
Mention'd  in  stories  of  renown, 

Built  formerly  of  mud  ; — 
O  Lud,  I  say,  why  didst  thou  e'er 

Invent  the  office  of  a  mayor, 
An  office  that  no  useful  purpose  crown^ 
But  to  set  aldermen  against  each  other, 
That  should  be  brother  unto  brother, — 
Sisters  at  least,  by  virtue  of  their  gowns  ? 

But  still,  if  one  must  have  a  mayor 
To  fill  the  civic  chair, 

•  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


fl  S 


&4a  ODE  FOR  THE  NINTH  OF  NOVEMBER. 

O  Lud,  I  say, 
Was  there  no  better  day 
To  fix  on  than  November  Ninth  so  shivery, 
And  dull  for  showing  off  the  Livery's  livery  ? 
Dimming,  alas  ! 
The  Brazier's  brass, 
Soiling  th'  Embroiderers  and  all  the  Saddlers, 
Soppin;^  the  Furriers, 
Draggling  the  Curriers, 
And  making  Merchant  Tailors  dirty  paddlers  ; 
Drenching  the  Skinners'  Company  to  the  skin. 
Making  the  crusty  Vintner  chiller, 
And  turning  the  Distiller 
To  cold  without  instead  of  warm  within  ;— 
Spoiling  the  brand-new  beavers 
Of  Wax-chandlers  and  Weavers, 

Plastering  the  Plasterers  and  spotting  Merceri| 
Hearty  November-cursers — 
And  showing  Cordwainers  and  dapper  Draper* 
Sadly  in  want  of  brushes  and  of  scrapers  ; 
Making  the  Grocer's  Company  not  tit 

For  company  a  bit  ; 
Dyeing  the  Dyers  with  a  dingy  flood, 
Daubing  incorporated  Bakers, 
And  leading  the  Patten-makers 
Over  their  very  pattens  in  the  mud,— 
O  Lud  !  O  Lud  !  O  Lud ! 

•*  This  is  a  sorry  sight," 
To  quote  Macbeth — but  oh,  it  grieves  me  quite, 
To  see  your  wives  and  daughters  in  their  plumes- 
White  plumes  not  white — 
Sitting  at  open  windows  catching  rheum% 
Not  "  angels  ever  bright  and  fair,'' 
But  angels  ever  brown  and  sallow. 
With  eyes — you  cannot  see  above  one  pair, 

For  city  clouds  of  black  and  yellow-^ 
And  artificial  flowers,  rose,  leaf,  and  bud. 
Such  sable  lilies 
And  grim  daffodilies. 
Drooping,  but  not  for  drought — O  Lud  !  O  Lud  1 

I  may  as  well,  while  I'm  inclined,  ^ 

Just  go  through  all  the  faults  I  find  : — 

O  Lud  !  then,  with  a  better  air,  say  Junc^ 
Could'st  thou  not  find  a  better  tune 
To  sound  with  trumpets  and  with  drums 
Than  "See  the  Conquering  Hero  comes," 

When  he  who  comes  ne'er  dealt  in  blood f 
Thy  may'r  is  not  a  war-horse,  Lud, 
That  ever  charged  on  Turk  or  Tartar, 


ODE  FOR  THE  NINTH  OF  NOVEMBER.  64] 

And  yet  upon  a  march  you  strike 

That  treats  him  like — 

A  httle  F  rench  if  I  niav  martyr- 
Lewis  Cart-Horse  or  Htnry  Carter  1 

O  Lud  !   I  say, 

Do  change  your  day 

To  some  time  when  your  Show  can  really  show  ; 

When  silk  can  seem  like  silk,  and  ^old  can  glow. 

Look  at  your  Sweepers,  how  they  shine  in  May  I 
Have  it  when  there's  a  sun  to  gild  the  coach, 
And  sparkle  in  tiara — bracelet — brooch — 

Diamond — or  paste — of  sister,  mother,  daughter  ; 
When  grandt  ur  really  may  be  grand — 
But  if  thy  pageant's  thus  obscured  by  land— 

0  Lud  !  it's  ten  times  worse  upon  the  water  ! 

Suppose,  O  Lud,  to  show  its  plan, 
I  call,  like  Blue  Beard's  wife,  to  Sister  Anne, 
Who's  gone  to  Beaufort  Wharf  with  niece  and  aunt, 
To  see  what  she  can  see — and  what  sue  can't; 
Chewing  a  saft'ron  bun  by  way  ot  cud. 
To  keep  the  fog  out  of  a  tender  lunu'. 
While  perch'd  in  a  verandah  nicely  hung 
Over  a  margin  of  thy  own  black  mud, 
O  Lud! 

Now  Sister  Anne,  I  call  to  thee,    • 

Look  out  and  see  : 
Of  course  about  the  bridge  you  view  them  rally 

And  sally, 
With  many  a  wherry,  sculler,  punt,  and  cutter ; 
The  Fishmongers'  grand  boat,  but  not  for  butter, 

The  Goldsmiths'  glorious  galley  ; — 
Of  course  you  see  the  Lord  Mayor's  coach  aquatic^ 
With  silken  banners  that  the  breezes  fan, 
In  gold  all  glowing. 
And  men  in  scarlet  rowing. 
Like  Doge  of  Venice  to  the  Adriatic  ; 
Of  course  you  see  all  this,  O  Sister  Anne? 

"No,  I  see  no  such  thing  ! 

1  only  see  the  edge  of  Beaufort  Wharf, 
With  two  coal-lighters  fasten'd  to  a  ring ; 

And,  dim  as  ghosts, 
Two  little  boys  are  jumping  over  posts  ; 

And  something,  farther  off. 
That's  rather  like  the  shadow  of  a  dog, 

And  all  beyond  is  log. 
If  there  be  anything  so  fine  and  bright, 
To  see  it  I  must  see  by  second  sight. 


M4 


ODE  FOR  THE  NINTH  OF  NOVt.MBER. 


Arms  found. 

Can  this  a  Show  ?    It  is  not  worth  a  pin  1 

I  see  no  barges  row, 

No  banners  blow  ; 
The  Show  is  merely  a  gallanty-show, 
Without  a  lamp  or  any  candle  in." 

But  Sister  Anne,  my  dear, 
Although  you  cannot  see,  you  still  may  hear  I 
Of  course  you  hear,  I'm  very  sure  of  that, 

The  "  Water  Parted  from  the  Sea"  in  C, 
Or  "  Where  the  Bee  sucks,"  set  in  B  ; 
Or  Huntsman's  chorus  from  the  Freischutz  frightful. 
Or  Handel's  Water  Music  in  A  fiat. 
Oh,  music  from  the  water  comes  delightful  I 
It  sounds  as  nowhere  else  it  Can  : 
You  hear  it  first 
In  some  rich  burst, 
Then  faintly  sighing, 
Tenderly  dying, 
Away  upon  the  breezes,  Sister  Anne, 

**  There  is  no  breeze  to  die  on  ; 
And  all  their  drums  and  trumpets,  flutes  and  harpl^ 
Could  never  cut  their  way  with  ev'n  three  sharps 
Through  such  a  fog  as  this,  you  may  rely  on. 

I  think,  but  am  not  sure,  I  hear  a  hum. 
Like  a  very  muffled  double  drum, 
And  then  a  something  faintly  shrill, 
Like  Bartlemy  Fair's  old  buz  at  Pentonville. 


RONDEAU. 


•4f 


And  now  and  then  I  hear  a  pop. 

As  if  from  Pedley's  soda-water  shop. 
Fm  almost  ill  with  the  strong  scent  of  mud* 

And,  not  to  mention  sneezing, 

My  ct)Ugh  is  more  than  usual  teasing; 
I  really  fear  that  I  have  chill'd  my  blood, 
O  Lud  !  O  Lud  !  O  Lud  !  O  Lud  !  O  Lud  I* 


'""'"'  Uiiii  r.iiiinii.iiMii.niin.t • 

Fancy  Portrait :— The  Lord  MaycK. 


RONDEA  U. 
(extracted  from  a  well-known  ankual.]* 


O  OTFIOtJS  reader  !  didst  thou  ne'er 
Behold  a  worshipful  lord  mayor 
Seated  in  his  great  civic  chair 

So  dear? 

Then  cast  thy  longing  eyes  this  way. 
It  is  the  ninth  November  day, 
And  in  his  new-born  state  sur'-ey 

One  here  I 

To  rise  from  little  into  great 
Is  pleasant ;  but  to  sin»:  in  state 
From  higk  to  lowly  is  a  fate 

Severe. 


Too  soon  his  shine  is  overcM^ 
Chill'd  by  the  next  November  blait| 
His  blushing  honours  only  last 

One  year  I 

He  casts  his  fur  and  sheds  his  chaini^ 
And  moults  till  not  a  plume  remains*- 
The  next  impending  mayor  distrains 
His  gear. 

He  slips  like  water  through  a  sieve— • 
Ah,  could  his  little  splendour  live 
Another  twelvemonth — he  would  giv« 
One  eai*. 


*  Comic  Annual,  1832. 


6^ 


LONDON'  FASHIONS  FOR  NOVEMBER* 


REMARKS. 

NO  season  has  ofFered  such  varWh  in  costume  as  the  early  part 
of  the  present  month.  Fancy  dresses  of  the  most  ontri  descrip- 
tion have  appeared,  even  in  the  streets.  Short  waists  and  king,  full 
sleeves  and  empty,  broad  skirts  and  narrow,  whole  skirts,  half  skirts, 
and  none  at  all,  have  been  indifferently  worn.  For  the  Protncnade., 
rags  and  tatters  of  all  kinds  have  been  in  much  favour  ;  vtry  few  but- 
tons are  worn  ;  and  the  coats,  waistcoats,  and  pantaloons,  have  been 
invariably  padded  and  stuffed  with  hay  or  straw.  We  observed  several 
exquisites  making  morninLj  c;ills  in  scarecrow  greatcoats  ;  the  skirts, 
lappels,  collars,  and  cuffs,  picturesquely,  but  not  too  formally,  jagged 
a  la  Vandyke.  The  prevailing  colours — all  colours  at  once.  Wigs 
have  been  very  general — both  en  buzz  and  frizz^ ;  these  have  been 
commonly  composed  of  deal  shavings  ;  but  in  some  cases  of  tow.  and 
sometimes  horsehair.  For  the  evenin;^  party,  a  few  squibs  and  crackers 
are  stuck  in  i\\e  perruqne  or  hat,  and  the  boots  and  shoes  are  polished 
up  with  a  little  pitch  or  tar  ;  sometimes  a  Catherine-wheel  has  been 
added  en  coquarde.  Frills,  collars,  and  ruffles  of  papier  coiipd  have 
entirely  superseded  those  of  cambric  or  lace,  and  shirts  of  every  des- 
cription are  quite  discarded.  Paint  has  been  in  much  request,  and 
ruddle  seems  to  have  been  preferred  to  roiic;c  ;  patches  are  also  much 
worn,  not  on  the  countenance,  but  on  the  clothes  ;  for  these  the  favourite 
matdriel  is  tartan,  plush  of  any  colour,  or  corduroy.  Several  dandies 
appeared  on  the  Fifth  with  gloves,  but  they  are  not  essential  requisites 
,-to  be  in  the  ton:  canes  are  discarded  ;  even  a  riding-whip  would  be 
reckoned  to  evince  mauvais  spoilt,  but  a  halfpenny  bunch  of  matches 
* d  ia  main"  is  irdispensable  to  a  fashionable  aspirant     The  old  praC- 

•  Comic  Anr-r-l,  183 1. 


SYMPTOMS  OF  OSSIFICA  TlOff.  64} 

Hce  of  being  carried  abroad  in  chairs  has  been  universally  revived; 
and  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  exhibits  the  figure  to  much  advant:ige. 

Amongst  the  nouveautds^  we  observed  the  following  caractere,  as 
xnaking  a  feUcitous  ddbut.  The  coat  was  d-la-7nilitaire,  of  the  colour 
formerly  so  much  in  vogue  under  the  name  oi/uine'e  de  Londres,  turned 
up  \K\th  Jlamme  d^enfer.  It  was  ^ar«/ with  very  dead  gold  and  slashed 
a  VEspagnole,  back  and  front.  The  pantaloons  v\  ere  equally  bizarre  ; 
one  leg  being  composed  of  Scotch  tartan,  and  the  other  of  blue  striped 
bed-ticking,  made  very  iwW.,  en  7natelot,  in  compliance  with  the  prev.nl- 
ing  taste  for  navals.  The  wig  was  made  of  green  and  wliiie  willow 
shavings,  with  a  large  link  for  a  queue^  tied  on  with  a  nceud  of  red  tape. 
The  hat,  brown,  somewhat  darker  than  the  Devonshire  beaver,  but 
disinclining  to  black.  It  had  no  brim,  and  was  without  a  trown.  A 
tarnished  badge  of  the  Phoenix  Fire  Office,  on  the  bust,  g  ive  a  distiugiii 
air  to  the  whole  figure,  which  was  going  down  Bond  street,  and  excited 
a  sensation  quite  h  Venvie  by  its  appearance  in  the  world  of  fashion. 

N.B. — We  are  requested  to  state  that  the  above  described  fi,_,ure 
was  entirely  invented  and  manufactured  by  little  Solomon  Levy,  of 
Holywell  street,  Strand,  who  has  a  variety  always  on  show,  about  ihe 
metropolis. 


SYMPTOMS  OF  OSSIFICATION* 

"An  indifference  to  tears,  and  blood,  and  human  suffering,  that  could  only  belong  to  a 
Boney-^arte." — Life  of  Napoleon. 

Time  was,  I  always  had  a  drop  At  Belvidera  now  I  smile, 

For  any  tale  or  si^^h  of  sorrow  ;  And  laugh  while  Mrs  Haller's  crying; 

My  handkerchief  I  Uied  to  sop  'Tis  odd,  so  great  a  change  ol  btyle  — 

Till  often  I  was  forced  to  borrow  ;  I  fear  iny  heart  is  ossifying  ! 

I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  now 

My  eyelids  seldom  want  a  drying  ;  That  heart  was  such— some  years  ago, 

The  doctors,  p'rhaps,  could  tell  me  To  see  a  beggar  quite  would  shock  it, 

how And  in  his  hat  I  used  to  throw 

I  fear  my  heart  is  ossifying  I  The  quarter's  savings  of  my  pocket: 

I  never  wish — as  I  did  then  ! — 

O'er  Goethe  how  I  used  to  weep.  The  means  from  my  own  purse  sup- 
With  turnip  cheeks  and  nose  of  scarlet,  plyhig, 

When  Werter  put  himself  to  sleep  To  turn  them  all  to  gentlemen — 

With  pistols  kiss'd   and   clean'd   by  I  fear  my  heart  is  ossifying  ! 

Charlotte  ; 

Self-murder  is  an  awful  sin,  We've  had  some  serious  things  of  late, 

No  joke  there  is  in  bullets  flying,  Our  sympathies  to  beg  or  borrow, 

But  now  at  such  a  tale  I  grin—  New  melo-drames,  of  iratjic  fate, 

I  fear  my  heart  is  ossifying  I  And    acts,    and    songs,    and    tales  ol 

sorrow ; 

The  Drama  once  could  shake  and  thrill  Miss  Zouch's  case,  our  eyes  to  melt. 

My  nerves,  and  set  my  tears  a-stealing,  And  sundry  actors  sad  good-bve*ngi 

The  Siddons  then  could  turn  at  will  But  Lord  ! — so  little  have  1  f eX 

Each  plug  upoa  the  main  of  feeling  ;  I'm  sure  my  heart  is  ossifying ' 

*  Comic  Annual,  183 1. 


M 


Cardy-Mums. 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  WILLIAM  WHISTON,^ 

"That  boy  is  the  brother  of  Pam ." — Joseph  Andrewt. 

•  T  T  7ILLIAM  certainly  is  fond  of  whist !  " 

VV  This  was  an  admission  drawn,  or  extracted,  as  Cartwright 
would  say,  like  a  double  tooth  from  the  mouth  of  William's  mother; 
an  amiable  and  excellent  lady,  who  ever  reluctantly  confessed  foibles 
in  her  family,  and  invariably  endeavoured  to  exhibit  to  the  world  the 
sunny  side  of  her  children. 

There  can  be  no  possibility  of  doubt  that  William  was  fond  of  whist. 
He  doted  on  it.  Whist  was  his  first  passion — his  first  love  ;  and  in 
•whist  he  experienced  no  disappointment.  The  two  were  made  for 
each  other. 

William  was  one  of  a  large  bunch  of  children,  and  he  never  grew 
up.  On  his  seventh  birthday  a  relation  gave  him  a  miniature  pack 
of  cards,  and  made  him  a  whistplayer  for  life.  Our  bias  dates  much 
earlier  than  some  natural  philosophers  suppose.  I  remember  William, 
a  mere  child,  being  one  day  William  of  Orange,  and  objecting  to  a  St 
Michael's  because  it  had  no  pips. 

At  school  he  was  a  total  failure,  except  in  reckoning  the  odd  tricks. 
He  counted  nothing  by  honours,  and  the  schoolmaster  said  of  his  head, 
•  Comic  Annual,  1833. 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  WILLIAM  WHISTON.  649 

what  he  has  since  said  occasionally  of  his  hand,  that  it  "  held  literally 
nothing." 

At  sixteen,  after  a  long  maternal  debate  between  the  black  and  red 
suits,  William  was  articled  to  an  attorney  ;  but  instead  of  becoming  a 
respectable  land-shark,  he  played  double-dummy  with  the  common- 
law  clerk,  and  was  discharged  on  the  6th  of  November.  The  prmcipal 
remonstrated  with  him  on  a  breach  of  duty,  and  William  imprudenily 
answered  that  he  was  aware  of  his  duty,  like  the  ace  of  spades.  Mr 
Bitem  immediately  banged  the  door  against  him,  and  William,  for  the 
fir^t  time  in  his  life — to  use  his  own  expression,  "got  a  slam." 

William  having  served  his  time,  and,  as  he  calls  it,  followed  suit  for 
five  years,  was  admitted  as  an  attorney,  and  bejan  to  play  at  that 
finessing  game,  the  law.  Short-hand  he  still  studied  and  practised  ; 
though  more  in  parlours  than  in  court, 

William  at  one  period  admired  Miss  Hunt,  or  Miss  Creswick,  or 
Miss  Hardy,  or  Miss  Reynolds  ;  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  great  card- 
makers,  I  forgot  which— and  he  cut  for  partners,  but  without  "getting 
the  lady."  His  own  explanation  was,  that  he  "was  discarded."  He 
then  paid  his  addresses  to  a  Scotch  girl,  a  Miss  MacNab,  but  she 
professed  religious  scruples  about  cards,  and  he  revoked.  1  h..ve  heard 
it  said  th.it  slie  expected  to  match  higher  ;  indeed  William  used  to  say 
she  "looked  over  his  hand." 

William  is  short,  and  likes  shorts.  He  likes  nothing  of  longs,  but 
the  St  John  of  them  ;  and  he  only  takes  to  him,  because  that  saint  is 
parti  1  to  a  rubber.  \\  hist  seems  to  influence  his  face  as  well  as  form  ; 
it  is  like  a  knave  of  clubs.  I  sometimes  fancy  whist  could  not  go  on 
without  William,  and  certainly  William  could  not  go  on  without 
whist.  His  whole  conversation,  except  on  cards,  is  wool-gathering  ; 
and  on  that  subject  is  like  wool — carded.  He  "  speaks  by  the  card," 
and  never  gives  equivocation  a  chance.  At  the  Olympic  once  he  had 
a  quarrel  with  a  gentleman  about  the  lead  oi  Madame  Vestris  or  Miss 
Sydney:  he  was  required  to  give  his  card,  and  t;ave  the  "Deuce  of 
Hearts."     This  was  what  he  termed  "calling  out." 

Of  late  years  William  only  goes  out  like  a  bad  rushlight,  earlyish  of 
a  night,  and  quits  every  table  that  is  not  covered  with  green  b.iize 
with  absolute  disgust.  The  fairies  love  by  night  to  '■'■gambol  on  the 
green.^'  and  so  does  William,  and  he  is  constantly  humming  with  great 
gusto, 

*'Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 
And  then  take  hands. " 

The  only  verses,  by  the  way,  he  ever  got  by  heart.     He  never  carecl 
to  play  much  with  the  Musls.     They  stick,  he  used  to  say,  at  Nine, 

William  can  sit  longer — drink  less— say  as  little — pay  or  receive  as 
much — shuffle  as  well — and  cut  as  deeply  as  any  man  on  earth.  You 
may  leave  him  safely  after  dinner,  and  catch  him  at  breakfast-time 
without  alteration  of  attitude  or  look.  He  is  a  small  statue  erected  in 
honour  of  whist,  and,  like  eloquence,  "holds  his  hand  well  up."  He 
is  content  to  ring  the  changes  on  thirteen  cards  a  long  midsummer 
night;  for  he  does  r\oiplajya.i  cards— he  w^r^j  at  them,  and,  consider- 
ing the  returns,  foi  very  low  wages.     William  never  was  particularly 


•so 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND  A  T  COB  HAM. 


A  Double  at  Long's. 

lucky  ;  but  he  bears  the  twos  and  threes  with  as  much  equanimity  a< 
any  one,  and  seems,  horticulturally  speaking,  to  have  grafted  patience 
upon  whist.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  the  family  motto,  but  he 
has  upon  his  seal— with  the  Great  Mogul  for  a  crest — the  inscription 
of  "  Packs  in  Bello" 

William  is  now  getting  old  (nearly  fifty-two),  with  an  asthma,  which 
he  says  makes  him  rather  "  weak  in  trumps."  He  is  preparing  himself 
accordingly  to  "take  down  his  score,"  and  has  made  his  will,  bequeath- 
ing all  he  has,  or  has  not,  to  a  whist  club.  His  funeral  he  directs  to 
be  quite  private,  and  his  gravestone  a  plain  one,  and  especially  "  that 
there  be  no  cherubims  carved  thereon,  forasmuch," — says  the 
characteristic  document,  "  that  they  never  hold  honours." 

LINES  TO  A   FRIEND  AT  COB  HAM* 

*TlS  pleasant,  when  we've  absent  friends, 
Sometimes  to  hob  and  nob  'em 
With  memory's  glass — at  such  a  pass, 
Remember  me  at  Cobham  I 


Bdl-Prmctice. 

Rave  pig^s  you  will,  and  sometimes  kill. 
But  if  you  sigh  and  sob  'tm, 

*  Comic  Amnial,   1S32. 


71?  A  BAD  RIDER. 

And  cannot  eat  your  home-grown  meat* 

Remember  me  at  Cobham  ! 

Of  hen  and  cock,  you'll  have  a  stocky 

And  death  will  oft  unthrob  'em — 

A  country  chick  is  good  to  pick — 

Remember  me  at  Cobham  ! 

Some  orchard  trees  of  course  you'll  leaM^ 

And  boys  will  sometimes  rob  'em, 

A  friend  (you  know)  before  a  foe — 

Remember  me  at  Cobham  ! 

You'll  sometimes  have  wax-lighted  room% 

And  friends  of  course  to  mob  'em  ; 

Should  you  be  short  of  such  a  sort, 

Remember  me  at  Cobham  1 


651 


Out  at  Elbow*. 


TO  A  BAD  RIDER* 


IL 


Why.  Mr  Rider,  why 

Your  nag  so  ill  indorse,  man? 
To  make  observers  cry. 

You're  mounted,  but  no  horseman? 


With  elbows  out  so  far. 

This  thought  you  can't  debar  1 
Though  no  dragoon — hussar — 

You're  surely  of  the  army  1 


III. 

I  hope  to  turn  M.P. 

You  have  not  any  notion, 
So  awkward  you  would  be 

At  "  seconding  a  motion  I* 

•  Comic  Annual,  1 83 1, 


Son  and  Hair. 


MY  SON  AND  HEIR.* 


V. 


My  mollier  bids  me  bind  my  heir, 
But   not   the   trade  where  I  should 

bind  ; 
To  place  a  boy — the  how  and  where — 
It  is  the  plague  of  parent-kind  1 

II. 

She  does  not  hint  the  slightest  plan, 
Nor  what  indentures  to  endorse  ; 
Whether  to  bind  him  to  a  man, — 
Or,  like  Mazeppa,  to  a  horse. 

III. 
What  line  to  choose  of  likely  rise. 
To  something  in  the  Stocks  at  last, — 
"  fast  bind,  fast  find,"  the  proverb 

cries, 
I  find  I  cannot  bind  so  fastt 

IV. 

A  statesman  James  can  never  be  ; 

A  tailor? — there  I  only  learn 
His  cliief  concern  is  cloth,  and  he 
Is  ilways  culling  his  concern. 

•  Comic  Annual,  1831 


A  seedsman  ? — I'd  not  have  Wm  S0| 

A  grocer's  plum  might  disappoint ; 
A  butcher?— no,  nut  that — although 
I  hear  "the  times  are  out  of  joint  I  * 


VL 


Too  many  of  all  trades  there  be, 
Like  pedlars,  each  has  such  a  pack; 
A  merchant  selling  coals? — we  see 
The  buyer  send  to  cellar  back. 


VII. 

hardware    dealer  ?- 

please. 


-that    might 


But  if  his  trade's  foundation  leans 
On  spikes  and  nails  he  won't  havt 

ease 
"When  he  retires  upon  his  means. 

VIII. 
A  soldier? — there  he  has  not  nervetf 

A  sailor  seldom  lays  up  pelf: 
A  baker? — no,  a  baker  serves 
His  customer  before  himself^ 


MY  SON  AND  HEIR. 


653 


IX. 


Dresser  of  hair? — that's  not  the  sort; 
A  joiner  jars  with  his  desire — 
A  churchman  ? — ^James  is  very  short. 
And  cannot  to  a  church  aspire. 


X. 


A  lawyer? — that's  a  hardish  term! 
A  publisher  might  give  him  ease, 
If  he  could  into  Longman's  firm. 
Just  plunge  at  once  "  in  medias  Rees." 


XI. 


A  shop  for  pot,  and  pan,  and  cup, 
Such  brittle  stock  I  can't  advise ; 
A  builder  running  houses  up. 
Their  gains  are  stories — maybe  lies  I 


XII. 

A  coppersmith  I  can't  endure— 
Nor  petty  usher  A,  B,  C-ing ; 
A  publican  no  father  sure 
Would  be  the  author  of  his  being  I 

XIII. 

A  paper-maker?— come  he  must 
To  rags  before  he  sells  a  sheet— 
A  miller? — all  his  toil  is  just 
To  make  a  meal — he  does  not  eaL 

XIV. 

A  currier? — that  by  favour  goes — 
A  chandler  gives  me  great  misgiving— 
An  undertaker? — one  of  those 
That  do  not  hope  to  get  their  living  I 


The  Family  Library. 


XV. 


Three  golden  balls  ?— I  like  them  not; 
An  auctioneer  I  never  did  — 
The  victim  of  a  slavish  lot, 
Obliged  to  do  as  he  is  bid  I 


XVI. 
A  broker  watching  fall  and  rise 
Of  stock  ? — I'd  rather  deal  in  stone,— 
A  printer? — there  his  toils  comprise 
Another's  work  beside  his  own. 


654 


MV  SON  AND  HEIR. 


xvii. 
A  cooper? — neither  I  nor  Jem 
Have  any  taste  or  turn  for  that— 
A  fish  retailer? — but  with  him, 
One  part  of  trade  is  always  flat 


A  painter? — long  he  would  not  live- 
An  artist's  a  precarious  craft — 
In  trade  apothecaries  give, 
But  very  seldom  take,  a  draught. 


A  glazier  ? — what  if  he  should  smash ! 
A  Crispin  he  shall  not  be  made— 


A  grazier  may  be  losing  cash, 
Although  he  drives  "  a  roaring  trade  ' 


Well,  something  must  be  done!  to  look 
On  all  my  little  works  around — 
James  is  too  big  a  boy,  like  book, 
To  leave  upon  the  shelf  unbound. 

XXI. 

But  what  to  do  ? — my  temples  ache 
From    evening's  dew  till   morning's 

pearl. 
What  course  to  take  my  boy  to  make— 
Oh  could  I  make  my  boy — a  girl  I 


Son  and  Sha(ia> 


NATIONAL  TALES 


PREFACE. 

IT  has  been  decided,  by  the  learned  Malthusians  of  our  century,  thai 
there  is  too  great  an  influx  of  new  books  into  this  reading  world. 
An  apology  seems  therefore  to  be  required  for  niC:  for  increasing  my 
family  in  this  kind  ;  and  by  twin  volumes,  instead  of  the  single  octavos 
which  have  hitherto  been  my  issue.  But  I  concede  not  to  that  modern 
doctrine,  which  supposes  a  world  on  short  allowance,  or  a  generation 
without  a  ration.  There  is  no  mentionable  overgrowth  likely  to  happen 
in  life  or  literature.  Wholesome  checks  are  appointed  against  over- 
fecundity  in  any  species.  Thus  the  whale  thins  the  myriads  of  her- 
rings, the  teeming  rabbit  makes  Thyestean  family  dmners  on  her  own 
offspring,  and  the  hyenas  devour  themselves.  Death  is  never  back- 
ward when  the  human  race  wants  hoeing  ;  nor  the  critic  to  thin  the 
propagation  of  the  press.  The  surplus  children,  that  would  encumber 
the  earth,  are  thrown  back  in  the  grave— the  superfluous  works  into  tha 
coffins  prepared  for  them  by  the  trunk-maker.  Nature  provides  thus 
equally  against  scarcity  or  repletion.  There  are  a  thousand  blossoms 
for  the  one  fruit  that  ripens,  and  numberless  buds  for  every  prosperous 
flower.  Those  for  which  there  is  no  space  or  sustenance  drop  early 
from  the  bough  ;  and  even  so  these  leaves  of  mine  will  pass  away,  if 
there  be  not  patronage  extant,  and  to  spare,  that  may  endow  them 
with  a  longer  date. 

I  make,  therefore,  no  excuses  for  this  production,  since  it  is  a  ven- 
ture at  my  own  peril.  The  serious  character  of  the  generality  of  the 
stories,  is  a  deviation  from  my  former  attempts  ;  and  I  have  received 
advice  enough,  on  that  account,  to  make  me  present  them  with  some 
misgiving.  But  because  I  have  jested  elsewhere,  it  does  not  follow 
that  I  am  incompetent  for  gravity,  of  which  any  owl  is  capable  ;  or  proof 
against  melancholy,  which  besets  even  the  ass.  Those  who  can  be 
touched  by  neither  of  these  moods,  rank  lower  indeed  than  both  of 
these  creatures.  It  is  from  none  of  the  player's  ambition,  which  has 
led  the  buffoon  by  a  rash  step  into  the  tragic  buskin,  that  I  assume 
the  sadder  humour,  but  because  I  know  from  certain  passages  that 
such  affections  are  not  foreign  to  my  nature.  During  my  short  life- 
time, I  have  often  been  as  "  sad  as  nit^ht,"  and  not  like  the  young 
gentlemen  of  France,  merely  from  wantonness.  It  is  the  contrast  ol 
such  leaden  and  golden  fits  that  lends  a  double  relish  to  our  days.  A 
life  of  mere  laughter  is  like  music  without  its  bass  ;  or  a  picture  (con- 
ceive it)  of  vague  unmitigated  light ;  whereas  the  occasional  melanr 


656  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

choly,  like  those  grand  rich  glooms  of  old  Rembrandt,  produces  an 
incompar.ible  etTect  and  a  very  gratelul  relief. 

It  will  flatter  me,  to  find  that  these  my  Tales  can  give  a  hint  to  the 
dramatist — or  a  few  hours'  entertainment  to  any  one.  I  confess  I  have 
thought  well  enough  of  them  to  make  me  compose  some  others,  which 
I  keep  at  home,  like  the  younger  Benjamin,  till  I  know  the  treatment 
of  their  elder  brethren,  whom  I  have  sent  forth  (to  buy  corn  for  me) 
into  Eg)  pt. 

**  To  be  too  confident  is  as  unjust 

In  any  work,  as  too  much  to  distrust ; 
Who,  from  tlie  rules  of  study  have  not  swerved. 
Know  begg'd  applauses  never  were  deserved. 
We  must  admit  to  censure,  so  doth  he 
Whose  hours  begot  this  issue  ;  yet,  being  free. 
For  his  part,  if  he  have  not  pleased  you,  then, 
In  this  kind  he'll  not  trouble  you  again." 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

INSTEAD  of  speaking  of  occurrences  which  accidentally  came 
under  my  observation,  or  were  related  to  me  by  others,  I  purpose 
to  speak  of  certain  tragical  adventures  which  personally  concerned 
me  ;  and  to  judge  from  the  agitation  and  horror  which  the  remem- 
brance, at  this  distance  of  time,  excites  in  me,  the  narrative  shall  not 
concede  in  interest  to  any  creation  of  fiction  and  romance.  My  hair 
has  changed  from  black  to  grey  since  those  events  occurred: — strange, 
and  wild,  and  terrible  enough  for  a  dream,  I  wish  I  could  believe  that 
they  had  passed  only  on  my  pillow  ;  but  when  I  look  around  me,  too 
many  sad  tokens  are  present  to  convince  me  that  they  were  real, — for  I 
still  behold  the  ruins  of  an  old  calamity  ! 

To  commence,  I  must  refer  back  to  my  youth,  when,  having  no 
brothers,  it  was  my  happy  fortune  to  meet  with  one  who,  by  his  rare 
qualities  and  surpassing  affection,  made  amends  to  me  for  that 
denial  of  nature.  Antonio  de  Linares  was,  like  myself,  an  orphan, 
and  that  circumstance  contributed  co  endear  him  to  my  heart  ;  we 
were  both  born,  too,  on  the  same  day  ;  and  it  was  one  of  our  childish 
superstitions  to  believe,  that  thereby  our  fates  were  so  intimately 
blended  that  on  the  same  day  also  we  should  each  descend  to  the  grave 
He  was  my  schoolmate,  my  playfellow,  my  partner  in  all  my  little 
possessions  ;  and  as  we  grew  up,  he  became  my  counsellor,  my  bosom 
friend,  and  adopted  brother.  I  gave  to  his  keeping  the  very  keys  of 
my  heart,  and  with  a  like  sweet  confidence  he  entrusted  me  even  with 
his  ardent  passion  for  my  beautiful  and  accomplished  cousin,  Isabelle 
de  *•**  ;  and  many  earnest  deliberations  we  held  over  the  certain 
opposition  to  be  dreaded  from  her  father,  who  was  one  of  the  proudest 
as  well  as  poorest  nobles  of  Andalusia.  Antonio  had  embraced  the 
profession  of  arms,  and  his  whole  fortune  lay  at  the  point  of  his 
sword  ;  yet  with  that  he  hoped  to  clear  himself  a  path  to  glory,  to 
wealth,  and  to  Isabelle.    The  ancestors  of  the  Condd  himself  had  been 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  657 

originally  ennobled  and  enriched  by  the  gratitude  of  their  sovereign,  for 
tlieir  signal  services  in  the  field  ;  and  when  I  considered  the  splendid 
and  warlike  t:dents  which  had  been  evinced  by  my  friend,  I  did  not 
think  thit  his  aspirations  were  too  lofty  or  too  sanguine.  He  seemed 
made  for  war  ;  his  chief  delight  was  to  read  of  the  exploits  of  our  old 
Spanish  chivalry  against  the  Moors  ;  and  he  lamented  bitterly  that 
an  interval  of  profound  peace  allowed  him  no  opportunity  of  signalis- 
ing his  prowess  and  his  valour  against  the  infidels  and  enemies  of 
Spain.  All  his  exercises  were  martial  ;  the  chase  and  the  bull-fight 
Were  his  amusement,  and  more  than  once  he  engaged  as  a  volunteer 
in  expeditions  against  the  mountain  banditti,  a  race  of  men  dangerous 
and  destructive  to  our  enemies  in  war,  but  the  scourge  and  terror  of 
their  own  country  in  times  of  peace.  Often  his  bold  and  adventurous 
spirit  led  him  into  imminent  jeopardy  ;  but  the  same  contempt  of 
danger,  united  with  his  generous  and  humane  nature,  made  him  as 
often  the  instrument  of  safety  to  others.  An  occasion  upon  which  he 
rescued  me  from  drowning,  confirmed  in  us  both  the  opinion  that  our 
lives  were  mutually  dependent,  and  at  the  same  time  put  a  stop  to  the 
frequent  railleries  I  used  to  address  to  him  on  his  wanton  and  unfair 
exposures  of  our  joint  existences.  This  service  procured  him  a  gra- 
cious introduction  and  reception  at  my  uncle's,  and  gave  him  oppor- 
tunities of  enjoying  the  society  of  his  beloved  Isabelle  ;  but  the  stern 
dispositiim  of  the  Cond<£  was  too  well  known  on  both  sides  to  allow  of 
any  more  than  the  secret  avowal  of  their  passion  for  each  other. 
Many  tears  were  secretly  shed  by  my  excellent  cousin  over  this  cruel 
consideration,  which  deterred  her  from  sharing  her  confidence  with 
her  parent  ;  but  at  length,  on  his  preparing  for  a  journey  to  Madrid, 
in  those  days  an  undertaking  of  some  peril,  she  resolved,  by  the 
assistance  of  filial  duty,  to  overcome  this  fear,  and  to  open  her  bosom 
to  her  father,  before  he  departed  from  her,  perhaps  for  ever. 

I  was  present  at  the  parting  of  the  Cond^  with  his  daughter,  which 
the  subsequent  event  impressed  too  strongly  on  my  memory  to  be  ever 
forgotten.  It  has  been  much  disputed  whether  persons  have  those 
special  warnings,  by  dreams  or  omens,  which  some  affirm  they  have 
experienced  before  sudden  or  great  calamity  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  be- 
fore the  departure  of  my  uncle,  he  was  oppressed  with  the  most  gloomy 
forebodings.  These  depressions  he  attributed  to  the  difficulties  of  the 
momentous  lawsuit  which  called  him  to  Madrid,  and  which,  in  fact, 
involved  his  title  to  the  whole  possessions  of  his  ancestors  ;  but 
Isabelle's  mind  interpreted  this  despondence  as  the  whisper  of  some 
guardian  spirit  or  angel  ;  and  this  belief,  united  with  the  difficulty  she 
found  in  making  the  confession  that  lay  at  her  heart,  made  her 
earnestly  convert  these  glooms  into  an  argument  against  his  journey. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  ''this  melancholy  which  besets  you  is  some 
warning  from  above,  which  it  would  be  impious  to  despise  ;  and  there- 
fore, sir,  let  me  entreat  you  to  remain  here,  lest  you  sin  by  tempting 
your  own  fate,  and  make  me  wretched  for  ever." 

"Nay,  Isabelle,"  he  replied  gravely,  "  I  should  rather  sin  by  mis- 
trusting the  good  providence  ot  God,  which  is  with  us  in  all  places  ; 
with  the  traveller  in  the  desert,  as  with  the  mariner  on  the  wild  ocean  ; 
notwithstanding,  let  me  embrace  you,  my  dear  child,  as  though  we 

a  T 


tfSS  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

never  should  meet  again  ;"  and  he  held  her  for  some  minutes  closely 

pressed  against  his  bosom. 

I  saw  that  Isabelle's  heart  was  vainly  swelling  with  the  secret  it  had 
to  deliver,  and  would  fain  have  spoken  for  her  ;  but  she  had  strictly 
forbidden  me  or  Antonio  to  utter  a  word  on  the  subject,  from  a  feeling 
that  such  an  avowal  should  only  come  from  her  own  lips.  Twice,  as 
her  father  prepared  to  mount  his  horse,  she  caught  the  skirts  of  his 
mantle  and  drew  hnn  back  to  the  threshold  ;  but  as  often  as  she 
attempted  to  speak,  the  blood  overflooded  her  pale  cheeks  and  bosoin, 
her  throat  choked,  and  at  last  she  turned  away  with  a  despairing 
gesture,  whicli  was  meant  to  say,  that  the  avowal  was  impos^iljle. 
The  Condd  was  not  unmoved,  but  he  mistook  the  cause  of  her  agita- 
tion, and  referred  it  to  a  vague  presentiment  of  evil,  by  which  he  was 
not  uninfluenced  himself.  Twice,  after  solemnly  blessing  his  daughter, 
he  turned  back  ;  once,  indeed,  to  repeat  some  trifling  direction,  but 
the  second  time  he  lingered,  abstracted  and  thoughtful,  as  if  internally 
taking  a  last  farewell  of  his  house  and  child.  I  had  before  earnestly 
entreated  to  be  allowed  to  accompany  hiin,  and  now  renewed  my 
request  ;  but  the  proposal  seemed  only  to  offend  hiin,  as  an  imputa- 
tion on  the  courage  of  an  old  soldier,  and  he  deigned  no  other  reply 
than  by  immediately  setting  spurs  to  his  horse.  I  then  turned  to 
Isabelle  ;  she  was  deadly  pale,  and  with  clasped  hands  and  streiming 
e\es  was  leaning  against  the  pillars  of  the  porch  for  support.  Neither 
of  us  spoke;  but  we  kept  our  eyes  earnestly  fixed  on  the  lessening 
figure,  that  with  a  slackened  pace  was  now  ascending  the  opposite  hill. 
The  road  was  winding,  and  sometimes  hid  and  sometimes  gave  him 
back  to  our  gaze,  till  at  last  he  attained  a  point  near  the  summit,  where 
we  knew  a  sudden  turn  of  the  road  would  soon  cover  him  entirely  from 
our  sight.  My  cousin,  I  saw,  was  overwhelmed  with  fear  and  self-re- 
pro.ich,  and  pointing  to  the  figure,  now  no  bigger  than  a  raven,  I  said 
I  would  still  overtake  him,  and  if  she  pleased,  induce  him  to  return  ;  but 
she  would  not  listen  to  the  suggestion.  Her  avow.d,  she  said,  sliould 
never  come  to  her  father  from  any  lips  but  her  own  ;  but  she  still  hoped, 
she  added  with  a  faint  smile,  that  he  would  return  safely  from  Madrid  ; 
and  then,  if  the  lawsuit  should  be  won,  he  would  be  in  such  a  mood, 
that  she  should  not  be  afraid  to  unlock  her  heart  to  him.  This  answer 
satisfied  me.  The  Cond^  was  now  passing  behind  the  extreme  point 
of  the  road,  and  it  was  destined  to  be  the  last  glimpse  we  should  ever 
have  of  him.     The  old  man  never  returned. 

As  soon  as  a  considerable  time  had  elapsed  more  than  was  neces- 
sary to  inform  us  of  his  arrival  in  the  capital,  we  began  to  grow  very 
anxious,  and  a  letter  was  despatched  to  his  advocate  with  the 
necessary  inquiries.  The  answer  brought  affliction  and  dismay.  The 
Condd  had  never  made  his  appearance,  and  the  greatest  anxiety  pre- 
vailed amongst  the  lawyers  engaged  on  his  behalf,  for  the  success  of 
their  cause.  Isabelle  was  in  despair  :  all  her  tears  and  self-reproaches 
were  renewed  with  increased  bitterness,  and  the  tenderest  arguments 
of  Antonio  and  myself  were  insufficient  to  subdue  her  alarm,  or  con- 
sole her  for  what  was  now  aggravated  in  her  eyes  to  a  most  heinous 
breach  of  filial  piety  and  affection.  She  was  naturally  of  a  relig'ous 
turn,  and  the  rei^roofs  of  her  confessor  not  only  tended  to  increase  hei 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  6Sf 

despondency,  but  induced  her  to  impose  tipon  herself  a  voluntary  and 
rash  act  of  penance,  that  cnused  us  the  greatest  aftliction.  It  had 
been  concerted  between  Antonio  and  myself,  th.it  we  should  immedi- 
atelv  proceed  by  different  routes  in  search  of  my  uncle  ;  and  at  d;iy- 
break,  after  the  receipt  t)f  tlie  advocate's  letter,  we  were  mounted  and 
armed,  and  ready  to  set  forth  upon  our  anxious  expedition.  It  only 
remained  for  us  to  take  leave  of  my  cousin  ;  and  as  we  were  conscious 
that  some  considerable  degree  of  peril  w.>s  attached  to  our  pur.-uit,  it 
was  on  mine,  and  must  have  been  to  Antonio's  feeling,  a  parting  of 
anxious  interest  and  importance.  But  the  farewell  was  forbidden — 
the  confessor  himself  informed  us  of  a  resolution  which  he  strenuously 
commended,  but  which  to  us,  for  this  once,  seemed  to  rob  his  words 
of  either  reverence  or  authority.  Isabelle,  to  mark  her  penitence  for 
her  imaginary  sin,  had  abjured  the  company  and  even  the  sight  of  her 
lover  until  her  father's  return,  and  she  should  have  reposcxi  in  his 
bosom  that  filial  confidence,  which,  she  conceived,  had  been  so  sinfully 
omitted.  This  rash  determin.ition  was  confirmed  by  a  sacred  vow  ; 
and  in  a  momentary  fit  of  disappointment  and  disapproljation,  which 
with  pain  I  now  confess,  I  refused  to  avail  myself  of  the  exception  that 
was  allowed  in  my  favour,  to  receive  her  farewell.  Antonio  was  loud 
in  his  murmurings  ;  but  the  case  admitted  of  no  alternative,  and  we 
set  forward  with  sad  and  heavy  hearts,  which  were  not  at  all  lightened 
as  we  approached  the  appointed  spot,  where  we  were  to  diverge  from 
each  other.  I  was  accompanied  by  my  man-servant  Juan  ;  but  Antonio 
had  resolutely  persisted  in  his  intention  of  travelling  alone  :  the  generd 
ra[)idity  and  adventurous  course  of  his  proceedings,  indeed,  would 
have  made  a  compmion  an  incumbrance;  and  he  insisted  that  the 
impenetrability  and  consequent  success  of  his  plans,  had  been  always 
most  insured  by  his  being  single  in  their  execution.  There  w.,s  some 
reason  in  this  argument.  Antonio's  spirits  seemed  to  rally  as  he  ad- 
vanced to  the  threshold  of  the  dan^'ers  and  difficulties  he  was  going 
probably  to  encounter  ;  and  after  ardently  wringing  my  hand,  and  half 
jestingly  reminding  me  of  the  co-dependence  of  our  lives,  he  dashed 
the  spurs  into  his  horse,  and  speedily  galloped  out  of  sight. 

The  road  assigned  to  myself  was  the  least  arduous,  but  the  one  I 
thought  it  most  likely  my  uncle  would  have  taken  on  account  of  the 
neighbourhood  of  some  family  connexions,  whither  his  business  would 
most  probably  carry  him  ;  but  only  at  the  first  of  these  mansions  could 
I  obtain  any  intelligence  of  his  arrival.  He  had  called  there  to  obtain 
some  necessary  signatures,  and  had  proceeded  without  any  expressed 
intention  of  the  route  in  which  he  was  next  to  travel.  It  "as  conjec- 
tured, however,  that  he  would  proceed  to  the  Chateau  of  *  *  *  * 
another  branch  of  the  family,  and  to  that  point  I  directed  my  course. 
But  here  all  clue  was  lost  ;  and  no  alternative  was  left  me,  but  to 
return  to  the  line  of  the  high  road  to  M  :drid.  I  must  here  pass  over 
a  part  of  my  progress,  which  would  consist  only  of  tedious  repetitions. 
Traces,  imagined  to  be  discovered,  but  ending  in  constant  disappoint- 
ment— hopes  and  fears — exertion  and  fatigue,  m.ike  up  all  the  history 
of  the  second  day,  till  finally  a  mistaken  and  unknown  road  brought 
us  in  time  to  take  refuge  from  a  tempestuous  night  at  a  lonely  inn  on 
the  mountains.     I  have  called  it  an  inn,  but  the  portion  thus  occupied 


86o  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY 

was  only  a  fraction  of  an  old  deserted  mansion,  one  wing  of  which  had 
been  rudely  repaired  and  made  habitable,  whilst  the  greater  part  was 
left  untenanted  to  its  slow  and  picturesque  decay.  The  contrast  was 
striking  :  whilst  in  the  windows  of  one  end,  the  lights  moving  to  and 
fro,  the  passing  and  repassing  of  shadows,  and  various  intermitting 
noises  and  voices,  denoted  the  occupancy  ;  in  the  centre  and  the  other 
extreme  of  the  pile,  silence  and  darkness  held  their  desolate  and 
absolute  reign.  I  thought  I  recognised  in  this  building  the  descrip- 
tion of  an  ancient  residence  of  my  uncle's  ancestry,  but  loni,^  since 
alienated  and  surrendered  to  the  wardenship  of  time.  It  frowned, 
methought,  with  the  gloomy  pride  and  defiance  which  had  been 
recorded  as  the  hereditary  characteristics  of  its  founders  ;  and,  but  for 
the  timely  shelter  it  afforded,  I  should  perhaps  have  bitterly  denounced 
the  appro!)riation  of  the  inni<eeper,  which  interfered  so  injuriously  with 
these  hallowed  associations.  At  present,  when  the  sky  lowered,  and 
large  falling  raindrops  heralded  a  tempest,  I  turned  without  reluctance 
from  the  old  quaintly-wrought  portal,  to  the  more  humble  porch,  which 
held  out  its  invitation  of  comfort  and  hospitality. 

My  knocking  brought  the  host  himself  to  the  door,  and  he  speedily 
introduced  me  to  an  inner  room,  for  the  smallness  of  which  he 
apologised,  adding,  that  I  should  find,  however,  that  it  was  the  better 
for  being  somewhat  distant  from  the  noisy  carousal  of  his  other  guests. 
This  man  was  a  striking  example  of  the  strange  marriage  of  incon- 
sistencies with  which  Nature  seems  sometimes  to  amuse  herself.  My 
arms  were  instinctively  surrendered  to  the  offer  of  his  care,  and,  till  i 
looked  again  on  his  face,  I  did  not  think  tliey  had  been  so  imprudently 
given  up.  His  countenance — enveloped,  almost  hidden,  in  bl.ick  shaggy 
hair — had  in  it  a  savage,  animal  expression,  that  excited  at  once  my 
fear  and  disgust.  It  was  wolf-like  ;  and  as  I  have  heard  of  brutes, 
that  they  are  unable  to  endure  the  steady  gaze  of  man,  so  his  eyes  were 
continually  shifting  ;  ever  restless,  yet  ever  watchful,  though  only  by 
short  and  sidelong  glances.  They  seemed  to  penetrate  and  surprise, 
by  startling  and  hasty  snatches  the  designs  and  emotions  you  might 
have  kept  veiled  from  a  more  steadfast  and  determined  inquisition.  I 
am  certain,  I  would  rather  have  met  the  most  fixed  and  unremitting  gaze 
than  his.  His  frame  was  appropriately  large,  yet  proportioned  and 
muscular  ;  it  seemed  adapted  at  once  for  strength  and  activity, — to 
spring,  to  wind,  to  crouch,  or,  at  need,  to  stiffen  itself  into  an  altitude 
of  staunch  and  inflexible  resistance.  How  came  such  a  figure  to  be 
the  habitation  of  such  a  voice  ?  This  was  low,  mellow,  full  of  soft  and 
musical  inflexions,  which  insinuated  his  courtesies  with  a  charm  it  was 
impossible  to  repel.  If  the  utterance  be  tuned  by  the  heart,  as  some 
have  affirmed,  and  the  characteristics  of  passion  denote  themselves  in 
the  lines  of  the  countenance,  what  an  irreconcilable  contradiction 
was  involved  in  this  man!  His  face  was  infernal,  demoniac — his 
utterance  divine  ! 

I  know  not  if  he  observed  the  eager  scrutiny  with  which  I  dwelt  on 
these  peculiarities  ;  he  hastily  left  me  just  as  I  had  commenced  those 
inquiries  concerning  my  uncle,  which  my  curiosity  had  in  the  firsf. 
instance  delayed.  Perhaps  he  could  not,  or  would  not,  reply  to  my 
questions ;  but  they  seemed  to  precipitate  his  retreat.     Was  it  pes- 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  66l 

sible  that  he  possessed  any  secret  knowl  edge  of  the  fi-te  of  the  Cond^? 
His  absence  had  been  succeeded  by  a  momentary  silence  amongst  the 
revellers  without,  as  if  he  were  relating  to  them  the  particulars  of  my 
inquiries.  A  slight  glance  at  that  boisterous  compmy  during  my 
hasty  passage  through  their  bnnquet-room,  had  given  me  no  very 
favourable  opinion  of  their  habits  or  character  ;  and  it  was  possible 
that  the  warlike  defences  and  fastenings  which  I  observed  everywhere 
about  me,  mi^ht  be  as  much  intended  for  the  home  security  of  a 
banditti,  as  for  a  precaution  against  their  probable  vicinity.  It  was 
now  too  late  for  me  to  retrace  my  steps.  Flight  wns  impracticable, 
the  same  precautions  which  were  used  against  any  hostile  entrance, 
were  equally  opposed  to  my  egress  ;  unless,  indeed,  1  had  recourse  to 
the  way  by  which  I  had  entered,  and  which  led  through  the  common 
room  immediately  occupied  by  the  objects  of  my  suspicion  :  this 
would  have  been  to  draw  upon  myself  the  very  consequence  I 
dreaded.  My  safety  for  the  present  seemed  to  be  most  assured  by  a 
careful  suppression  of  all  tokens  of  distrust,  till  these  suspicions  should 
be  more  explicitly  confirmed  ;  and  I  should  not  readily  forgive  myself 
if,  after  incurring  all  the  dangers  of  darkness  and  tempest  and  an 
unknown  country,  it  should  prove  that  my  apprehensions  had  been 
acted  upon  without  any  just  foundation. 

These  thoughts,  however,  were  soon  diverted  by  a  new  object.  The 
innkeeper's  daughter  entered  with  refreshments, — bread  merely,  with 
a  few  olives  ;  and  I  could  not  restrain  Juan  from  .addressing  to  her 
some  familiarities,  which  were  so  strangely  and  incoherently  answered, 
as  quickly  to  bespeak  my  whole  attention.  It  was  then  impossible  to 
look  away  from  her.  From  her  features  she  had  evidently  been  very 
handsome,  with  a  good  figure  ;  but  now  she  stooped  in  her  shoulders, 
and  had  that  peculiar  crouching  and  humbled  demeanour,  which  I  have 
often  observed  in  the  insane.  Indeed,  she  had  altogether  the  manner 
and  appearance  of  one  under  the  influence  of  melancholy  derange- 
ment. She  looked,  moved,  spoke,  like  a  being  but  half  recovered  from 
death  and  the  grave  ;  as  if  the  body,  indeed,  was  released  from  its 
cerements,  but  the  mind  had  not  yet  escaped  from  its  mortal  thraldom, 
I  never  saw  an  eye  so  dark  and  so  dull  in  woman  ! — it  had  not  the 
least  lustre  or  intelligence,  but  seemed  glazed,  and  moved  with  a 
heaviness  and  languor  just  short  of  death  !  Her  cheeks  were  as  pale 
as  marVjle,  but  of  a  cold,  unhealthy  ashen  white  ;  and  my  heart 
ached  to  think  that  they  had  been  bleached,  most  probably,  by  bitter 
and  continual  tears.  On  her  neck  she  wore  a  small  black  crucifix, 
which  she  sometimes  kissed,  as  if  mechanically,  and  with  a  very  faint 
semblance  of  devotion  ;  and  her  hands  were  adorned  with  several  most 
costly  and  beautiful  rings  ;  far  foreign,  indeed,  to  her  station  ;  but 
borne,  it  seemed,  without  any  feeling  of  personal  vanity,  or  even  of 
consciousness.  The  world  seemed  to  contain  for  her  no  stirring 
interest  ;  her  mind  had  stagnated  like  a  dark  pool,  or  had  mther 
frozen,  till  it  took  no  impression  from  any  external  object.  Where  she 
acted,  it  was  only  from  the  influence  of  habit  ;  and  when  the  task  was 
done,  she  relapsed  again  into  the  same  cold  and  calm  indifference. 
Judge,  then,  of  my  astonishment, —  I  might  say,  terror,  when  this 
mysterious  being,  so  insensible,  so  apparently  abstracted  from  alJ 


662  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

earthly  contemplations,  began  to  rivet  her  black  eyes  upon  mine,  and 
to  lose  her  accustomed  apathy  in  an  expression  of  some  wild  and  in- 
conceivable interest  !  What  was  there  in  me  to  arouse  her  from  tliat 
mental  trance  in  which  she  had  been  absorbed  ?  I  wished,  with  the 
most  intense  anxiety,  to  gain  some  information  from  her  looks  ;  and, 
yet  at  the  same  time,  I  could  not  confront  her  gaze  even  for  an 
instant.  Her  father,  who  had  entered,  surprised  at  so  extraordinary 
an  emotion,  hastened  abruptly  out  ;  and  the  immediate  entrance  of  the 
mother,  evidently  upon  some  feigned  pretext  of  business,  only  tended 
to  increase  my  inquietude. 

How  had  I  Ijecome  an  object  of  interest  to  these  people,  whom  till 
that  hour  I  had  never  seen  ;  and  with  whose  affairs,  by  any  possibility, 
I  could  not  have  the  most  remote  connexion,  unless  by  their  implica- 
tion in  the  fate  of  my  uncle  ?  This  conjecture  filled  me  with  an  alarm 
and  agitation  I  could  ill  have  concealed,  if  my  remorseless  observer 
had  not  been  too  much  absorbed  in  her  own  undivined  emotions,  to 
take  any  notice  of  mine.  A  sensation  of  shame  flushed  over  me,  at 
being  thus  quelled  and  daunted  by  the  mere  gaze  of  a  woman  ;  but 
then  it  was  such  a  look  and  from  such  a  being  as  I  can  never  behold 
again  !  It  seemed  to  realise  all  that  I  had  read  of  Circean  enchant- 
ment, or  of  the  snake-like  gaze,  neither  to  be  endured  nor  shunned  ; 
and  under  this  dismal  spell  I  remained  till  the  timely  entrance  of 
Juan.  The  charm,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  then  broken  ;  with  a 
long  shuddering  sigh  she  turned  away  her  eyes  from  me,  and  then  left 
the  room.  What  a  load,  at  that  moment,  seemed  removed  from  my 
heart  I  Her  presence  had  oppressed  me,  like  that  of  one  of  the  mortal 
Fates  ;  but  now,  at  her  going,  my  ebbing  breath  returned  again,  and 
the  blood  thrilled  joyfully  through  my  veins. 

Juan  crossed  himself  in  amaze  !  he  had  noticed  me  shrinking  and 
shuddering  beneath  her  glance,  and  doubtless  framed  the  most  horrible 
notions  of  an  influence  which  could  work  upon  me  so  potently.  He, 
too.  had  met  with  his  own  terrors,  in  a  whispermg  dialogue  he  had 
partially  overheard  during  his  employment  in  the  stable,  and  which 
served  to  unravel  the  fearful  mystery  that  hung  like  a  cloud  over  all 
the  seeming  and  doings  of  that  bewildered  creature.  She  had  loved  ; 
and  It  was  but  too  plain,  from  the  allusions  of  the  dialogue,  that  the 
object  of  her  affection  had  been  a  robber  !  He  had  sufiered  for  his 
crimes  a  cruel  and  lingering  death,  of  which  she  had  been  a  constrained 
spectator,  and  she  had  maddened  over  the  remembrance  of  his 
agonies. 

It  required  but  little  conjecture  to  fill  up  the  blanks  of  the  narrative  ; 
her  manners,  her  apathy,  the  possession  of  those  costly  ornaments, 
were  easily  accounted  for  ;  and  it  only  remained  to  find  a  solution 
for  the  wild  and  intense  interest  with  wiiich  she  had  regarded  me. 
This  would  have  a  natural  explanation  by  supposing  in  m\self  some 
accidental  restmblance  to  the  features  of  her  lover;  and  the  after- 
course  of  events  proved  that  this  conjecture  was  well  founded.  There 
were  sufficient  grounds  in  these  particulars  for  inquietude  and  alarm. 
From  the  nature  of  her  attachment,  the  avocations  and  connexions 
of  tlie  family  nnist  be  of  a  very  dubious  character.  What  if  my  host 
himself  should  be  secretly  associated  with  some  neighbouring  hoide 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY,  663 

r)f  banditti,  and  under  his  ostensible  occupation  of  innlceeper,  abctteu 
their  savage  and  bloodthirsty  designs  upon  the  unwary  travelltr! 
Might  not  his  very  house  be  their  lurking-place  or  rendezvous?  nay, 
might  it  not  be  provided  with  cellars  and  traps,  and  secret  vaults,  and 
all  tiiose  atrocious  contrivances  which  we  have  heard  of  as  expressly 
prepar. d  for  the  perpetr.ition  of  outrage  and  murder?  There  was  a 
marked  wariness  and  reserve  about  the  master,  a  mixture  of  fox-like 
caution,  with  the  ferocity  of  the  wolf,  that  confirmed,  rather  than 
allayed  such  suspicions  ;  and  why  had  my  arms  been  so  officiously 
conveyed  away,  under  a  pretence  of  care  and  attention,  but  in  reality 
to  deprive  me  of  even  the  chances  of  defence  ?  All  these  considera- 
tions shaped  themselves  so  reasonably,  and  agreed  together  so 
naturally,  as  to  induce  conviction  ;  and  looking  upon  myself  as  a 
victim  already  marked  for  destruction,  it  only  remained  for  me  to 
exercise  all  my  sagacity  and  mental  energy,  to  extricate  myself  from 
the  toils.  Flight  I  had  resolved  was  impracticable, — and  if  I  should 
demand  my  arms,  the  result  of  such  an  application  was  obviously 
certain  ;  I  dared  not  even  hint  a  suspicion  :  but  why  do  I  speak  of 
suspicions?  they  were  immediately  to  be  ripened  into  an  appalling 
certainty. 

I  had  not  communicated  my  thoughts  to  Juan,  knowing  too  well  his 
impetuous  and  indiscreet  character  ;  but  in  the  meantime  his  own 
fears  had  been  busy  with  him,  and  his  depression  was  aggravated  by 
the  circumstance  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  procure  any  v/ine  from 
the  innkeeper,  who  swore  tiiat  he  had  not  so  much  as  a  flask  left  in 
his  house.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  believe  that  one  of  his 
profession  should  be  so  indifferently  provided  ;  but  this  assertion,  made 
in  the  face  of  all  the  flasks  and  flagons  of  his  revellers,  convinced 
me  that  he  felt  his  own  mastery  over  us,  and  was  resolved  to  let  us  cost 
him  as  little  as  possible. 

Juan  was  in  despair;  his  courage  was  always  proportioned  to  the 
wme  he  had  taken,  and  feeling  at  this  moment  an  urgent  necessity  for 
its  assistance,  he  resolved  to  supply  himself  by  a  stolen  visit  to  the 
cellar.  He  had  shrewdly  taken  note  of  its  situation  during  a  temporary 
assistance  rendered  to  the  innkeeper,  and  made  sure  that  by  watching 
his  0[)portunity  he  could  reach  it  unperceived.  It  seemed  to  require 
no  small  degree  of  courage  to  venture  m  the  dark  upon  such  a  course  ; 
but  the  excitement  was  stronger  than  fear  could  overb. dance  ;  and 
plucking  off  his  boots,  to  prevent  any  noise,  he  set  forth  on  his  expedi- 
tion. No  sooner  was  he  gone,  than  I  be.^an  to  perceive  the  danger  to 
which  such  an  imprudent  step  might  subject  us,  but  it  was  too  late  to 
be  recalled,  and  I  was  obliged  to  wait  in  no  very  enviable  anxiety  for 
his  return. 

The  interval  was  tediously  long,  or  seemed  so,  before  he  made  his 
appearance.  He  bore  a  small  can  ;  and,  from  his  looks,  had  met 
with  no  serious  obstacle  ;  but  whether  the  theft  had  been  observed,  or 
it  h  ppened  simply  by  chance,  the  innkeeper  entered  close  upon  his 
heels.  There  is  sometimes  an  instinctive  presence  of  mind  inspired 
by  the  aspect  of  danger  ;  and  guided  by  this  impulse,  in  an  inst.mt  I 
extinguished  the  light  as  if  by  accident.  For  a  time,  at  least,  we  wert 
sheltered  from  discovery.     The  innkeeper  turned  back — it  was  a  criticaj 


164  THE  SPAA'ISH  TRAGEDY. 

moment  for  us — but  even  in  that  moment  the  unruly  spirit  of  drink 
prompted  my  unlucky  servant  to  take  a  draught  of  his  stolen  beverage, 
and  immediately  afterwards  I  heard  him  spittir^g  it  forth  again,  in 
evident  disgust  with  its  flavour.  In  a  few  moments  the  innkeeper  re- 
turned with  a  lamp,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  gone  the  liquor  was  eagerly 
inspected,  and  to  our  unspeakable  horror,  it  had  every  appearance  of 
blood  !  It  was  impossible  to  suppress  the  effect  of  the  natural  disgust 
which  affected  Juan  at  this  loathsome  discovery — he  groaned  aloud, 
he  vomited  violently,  the  innkeeper  again  came  in  upon  us,  and  though 
I  attriljuttd  the  illness  of  my  servant  to  an  internal  rupture  which 
occasioned  him  at  times  to  spit  up  blood,  it  was  evident  that  he  gave 
no  credit  to  the  explanation.  He  seemed  to  comprehend  the  whole 
scene  at  a  glance.  In  fact,  the  vessel  with  its  horrid  contents  stood 
there  to  confront  me,  and  I  gave  up  my  vain  attempt  in  silent  and 
absolute  despair. 

If  we  were  not  before  devoted  to  death,  this  deadly  circumstance  had 
decided  our  fate.  His  own  safety,  indeed,  would  enforce  upon  tlie  inn- 
keeper the  necessity  of  our  being  sacrificed.  The  fellow,  meanwhile, 
departed  without  uttering  a  syllable  :  but  I  saw  in  his  look  that  his  de- 
termination was  sealed,  and  that  my  own  must  be  as  promptly  resolved. 
I  had  before  thought  of  one  measure  as  a  last  desperate  resource.  This 
was  to  avail  myself  of  the  favourable  interest  I  had  excited  in  the 
daughter — to  appeal  to  her  pity — to  awaken  her,  if  possible,  to  a  sym- 
pathy with  my  danger,  and  invoke  her  interference  to  assist  my  escape. 
Yet  how  could  I  obtain  even  an  interview  for  my  purpose?  Strange 
that  I  should  now  wish  so  ardently  for  that  very  being  whose  presence 
had  so  lately  seemed  to  me  a  curse.  Now  I  listened  for  her  voice,  her 
step,  with  an  impatience  never  equalled,  perhaps,  but  by  him  for  whom 
she  had  crazed.  My  whole  hope  rested  on  that  resemblance  which 
might  attract  her  again  to  gaze  on  a  shadow,  as  it  were,  of  his  image, 
and  I  was  not  deceived.  She  came  again,  and  quietly  seating  herself 
before  me,  began  to  watch  me  with  the  same  earnestness. 

Poor  wretch  !  now  that  I  knew  her  history,  I  legarded  her  with 
nothing  but  tenderness  and  pity.  Her  love  might  have  burned  as 
bright  and  pure  as  ever  was  kindled  in  a  miiden's  bosom;  and  was 
she  necessarily  aware  of  the  unhallowed  profession  of  its  object  ?  He 
migi)t  have  been  brave,  generous — in  lo\e,  at  least,  honoured  and 
honourable,  and  compared  with  the  wretches  with  whom  her  home 
associated  her,  even  as  an  angel  of  light.  Would  his  fate  else  have 
crushed  her  with  that  eternal  sorrow.-'  Such  were  my  reflections  on 
the  melancholy  of  the  woman  before  me  ;  and  if  my  pity  could  obtain 
its  recompense  in  hers,  I  was  saved  ! 

Hope  catches  at  straws.  I  saw,  or  fancied  in  her  looks,  an 
affectionate  expression  of  sympathy  and  anxiety,  that  I  eagerly 
interpreted  in  my  own  behalf;  but  the  result  belied  this  anticipa- 
tion. It  was  evident  that  my  most  impassioned  words  produced  no 
corresponding  impression  on  her  mind.  My  voice  even  seemed  to 
dispel  the  ilUision  that  was  raised  by  my  features,  and  rising  up,  she 
was  going  to  withdraw,  but  that  I  detained  her  by  seizing  her  hand. 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  said,  and  made  a  slight  effort  to  free  herself ;  "  you 
%re  not  Andreas." 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  66) 

•  No,  my  poor  maiden,"  I  said,  "  I  am  not  Andreas  ;  but  am  1  not 
his  image  ?     Do  I  not  remind  you  of  his  look,  of  his  fe;itures  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  replied  quickly,  "  you  are  like  my  Andreas — you  are 
like  him  here,"  and  she  stroked  back  the  hair  from  my  forehead  ; 
"  but  his  hair  was  darker  than  this,"  and  the  mournful  remembrance 
for  the  first  time  filled  her  dull  eyes  with  tears. 

This  was  an  auspicious  omen.  Whilst  I  saw  only  her  hot  glazed 
eyes,  as  if  the  fever  within  had  parched  up  every  tear,  I  despaired  of 
excitin:^  her  sympathy  with  an  external  interest  ;  but  now  that  her  grief 
and  her  malady  even  seemed  to  relent  in  this  effusion,  it  was  a  favour- 
able moment  for  renewing  my  appeal.  I  addressed  her  in  the  most 
touching  voice  I  could  assume. 

"  You  loved  Andreas,  and  you  say  I  resemble  him  ;  for  his  sake,  will 
you  not  save  me  from  perishing?" 

Her  only  answer  was  an  unconscious  and  wondering  look. 

"  I  know  too  well,"  I  continued,  "that  I  am  to  perish,  and  you  knovsr 
it  likewise.     Am  I  not  to  be  murdered  this  very  night  ?" 

She  made  no  reply  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  comprehended  my 
words.  Could  it  be  that,  with  thai  strange  cunning  not  uncommon  to 
insanity,  she  thus  dissembled,  in  order  to  cover  her  own  knowledge  of 
the  murderous  designs  of  her  father?  I  resolved,  at  least,  to  proceed 
on  this  supposition,  and  repeated  my  words  in  a  tone  of  certainty. 
This  decision  had  its  effect ;  or  else,  her  reason  had  before  been  in- 
comoetent  to  my  question. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  yes  ! "  she  said,  in  a  low  hurried  tone,  and  with  a 
suspicious  glance  at  the  door,  "  it  is  so  ;  he  w  ill  come  to  you  about 
midnight.     You  are  the  son  of  the  old  man  we  strangled." 

Conceive  how  I  started  at  these  words  !  They  literally  stung  my 
ears.  It  was  not  merely  that  my  worst  fears  were  verified  as  regarded 
the  fate  of  my  uncle  ;  for,  doubtless,  he  was  the  victim — or,  that  I  was 
looked  upon  and  devoted  to  a  bloody  death  as  his  avenger  ;  for  these 
announcements  I  was  already  prepared  ;  but  there  was  yet  another 
and  a  deeper  cause  of  horror  : — "The  old  man  that  we  strangled  !  " 
Had  that  wild  maniac  then  lent  her  own  hands  to  the  horrid  deed  ?  had 
she,  perhaps,  helped  to  bind — to  pluck  down  and  hold  the  struggling 
victim — to  stifle  his  feeble  cries — nay,  joined  her  strength  even  to 
tighten  the  fatal  cord  ;  or  was  it  that  she  only  implicated  herself  in 
the  act,  by  the  use  of  an  equivocal  expression  ?  It  might  merely 
signify,  that  it  was  the  act  of  some  of  those  of  the  house,  with  whom, 
by  habit,  she  included  herself  as  a  part.  At  the  same  time,  I  could 
not  but  remember,  that  even  the  female  heart  has  been  known  to 
become  so  hardened  by  desperation  and  habitudes  of  crime,  as  to  be 
capable  of  the  most  ferocious  and  remorseless  cruelties.  She  had,  too, 
'hose  same  black  eyes  and  locks,  which  I  have  always  been  accus- 
tomed to  think  of  in  connection  with  Jael  and  Judith,  and  all  those 
stern-hearied  women,  who  dipped  tlieir  unfaltering  hands  in  blood. 
Her  brain  was  dizzy,  her  bosom  was  chilled,  her  sympathies  were  dead 
and  torpid,  and  she  might  gaze  on  murder  and  all  its  horrors  with  her 
wonted  apathy  and  indifference.  To  what  a  being  then  was  I  going 
to  commit  my  safety  !  To  one  who  from  the  cradle  had  been  nursed 
amidst  scenes  of  bloodshed  and  violence  :  whose  associates  had  evef 


W6  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

been  the  fierce  and  the  lawless  ;  whose  lover  even  had  been  a  leader  of 

banditti  ;  and  by  his  influence  and  example,  migiit  m:ike  even  mufder 
and  cruelty  lose  some  portion  of  their  natural  blackness  and  horror. 

It  mi<^ht  happen,  that  in  these  thoughts  I  wronged  that  unhappy 
creature  ;  but  my  dismal  situation  predisposed  me  to  regard  everytiiing 
in  the  most  unfavourable  light.  I  had  cause  for  apprehension  in  every - 
sound  that  was  raised — in  every  foot  that  stirred — in  whatever  face  I 
met — that  belonged  to  that  horrible  place.  Still,  my  present  experi- 
ment was  the  last,  short  of  mere  force,  which  I  could  hope  would 
avail  me  ;  and  I  resumed  the  attempt.  It  seemed  prudent,  in  order  to 
quiet  the  suspicion  I  had  excited,  that  I  should  first  disclaim  all 
connection  or  interest  in  the  unfortunate  victim  ;  and  I  thought  it  not 
criminal,  in  such  an  extremity,  to  have  recourse  to  a  falsehood. 

"  What  you  say,''  I  replied  to  her,  "  of  an  old  man  being  murdered, 
is  to  me  a  mystery.  If  such  an  occurrence  has  happened,  it  is  no 
doubt  lamentable  to  some  one  ;  but  as  for  my  father,  I  trust,  that  fcr 
these  many  years  he  has  been  with  the  blessed  in  the  presence  of  God. 
For  myself,  I  am  a  traveller,  and  the  purposes  of  my  journey  are 
purely  mercantile.  My  birthplace  is  En:^land — but,  alas  !  I  siiall 
never  see  it  again  !  You  tell  me  I  am  to  die  to-night — that  I  am  to 
perish  by  violence — and  have  you  the  heart  to  reiign  me  to  such  a 
horrible  fate  ?  You  have  power  or  interest  to  save  me  ;  let  me  not 
perish  by  I  know  not  what  cruelties.  I  have  a  hoine  fir  away — let  it 
not  be  made  desolate.  Let  me  return  to  my  wife,  and  to  my  young 
children,  and  they  shall  daily  bless  thee  at  the  foot  of  our  altars  !  " 

I  believe  the  necessity  of  the  occasion  inspired  me  with  a  suitable 
eloquence  of  voice  and  manner  ;  for  these  words,  untrue  as  they  were, 
made  a  visible  impression  on  the  wild  being  to  whom  they  wt  re 
addressed.  As  I  spoke  of  violence  and  cruelty  she  shuddered,  as  if 
moved  by  her  own  terrible  associations  with  those  words  ;  but  when  I 
came  to  the  mention  of  my  wife  and  children,  it  evidently  awakened 
her  compassion  ;  and  all  at  once,  her  womanly  nature  burst  through 
the  sullen  clouds  that  had  held  it  in  eclipse. 

"  Oh.  no — no — no  !"  she  replied,  hurriedly  ;  "you  must  not  die— 
your  babes  will  weep  else,  and  your  wife  will  craze.  Andreas  w  nild 
have  said  thus  too,  but  he  met  with  no  pity  for  all  the  eyes  that  wept 
for  him.' 

She  clasped  her  forehead  for  a  moment  with  her  hands,  and  con- 
tinued : — "  But  I  must  find  a  way  to  save  you.  I  thought,  when  he 
died,  I  could  never  pity  any  one  again  ;  but  he  will  be  glad  in  heaven 
that  1  have  spared  one  for  his  sake." 

A  momentary  pang  shot  through  me  at  these  touching  words,  when 
I  remembered  how  much  I  had  wronged  her  by  my  injurious 
suspicions :  but  the  consideration  of  my  personal  safety  quickly 
engrossed  my  thoughts,  and  I  demanded  eagerly  to  know  by  what 
means  she  proposed  to  effect  my  escape.  She  soon  satisfied  me  that 
it  would  be  a  trial  of  my  utmost  fortitude.  There  was  a  secret  door 
in  the  p'anelling  of  my  allotted  bedchamber,  which  communicated 
with  her  own,  and  by  this,  an  hour  before  midnight,  she  would  guide 
me  and  provide  for  my  egress  from  the  house  :  but  she  could  neither 
yromise  to  procure  me  my  horse,  nor  to  provide  for  the  safety  of  the 


THE  SPAMSH  TRAGEDY.  667 

anluc^y  Juan,  who  was  destined  to  be  lodged  in  a  loft  far  distant  from 
my  npartinent.  It  may  be  imngined  that  I  listened  with  a  very  un- 
willing ear  to  this  arrangement  ;  by  which,  alone,  unarmed,  I  w:is  to 
await  the  uncertain  coming  of  my  preserver.  What  if  by  any  accident 
it  should  be  preceded  by  that  of  the  assassin? — but  it  was  idle  ic 
indulge  in  these  doubts.  There  was  but  one  chance  of  escipe  open  to 
me  ;  and  it  was  for  me  to  embrace  it  upon  whatever  terms  it  was 
offered.  Accordingly,  I  promised  to  conform  implicitly  to  the  maiden's 
instructions,  to  offer  no  opposition  to  any  arrangements  which  should 
be  made,  to  stifle  carefully  the  slightest  indications  of  mistrust,  to  seal 
up  my  lips  for  ever  in  silence  on  these  events,  and  above  all,  to  avoid 
any  expression  or  movement  which  might  give  umbrage  to  her  father  ; 
with  these  cautions,  and  kissing  her  crucifix  in  token  of  her  sincerity, 
she  left  me. 

I  was  alone  ;  Juan,  on  some  occasion,  had  withdrawn,  and  I  was  left 
to  the  companionship  of  reflections  which  in  such  a  feverish  interval 
could  not  be  anything  but  disgusting.  At  one  time,  I  calculated  the 
many  chances  there  were  against  the  continuance  of  this  rational 
interval  in  the  mind  of  a  maniac  :  then  I  doubted  her  power  of  saving 
me,  and  whether  the  means  she  had  proposed  as  existing  in  reality 
might  not  be  her  own  delusion,  as  well  as  mine.  I  even  debated  with 
myself,  whether  it  was  not  an  act  of  moral  turpitude  that  I  should 
accept  of  deliverance  without  stipulating  for  the  safety  of  my  poor 
servant. 

These  thoughts  utterly  unnerved  me.  The  ticking  of  the  clock  grew 
into  a  sensation  of  real  and  exquisite  pain,  as  indicating  the  continual 
advances  of  time  towards  a  certain  crisis,  with  its  yet  uncertain  catas- 
trophe. The  hour-hand  was  already  within  a  few  digits  of  ten,  and 
kept  travelling  onward  with  my  thoughts  to  a  point  that  might  verge 
with  me  on  eternity.  The  lamp  was  every  moment  consuming  its  little 
remainder  of  oil,  to  supply  me,  it  might  be,  with  my  last  of  light.  My 
days  were  perhaps  numbered  ;  and  the  blood  taking  its  last  course 
through  my  veins! 

One  ot  these  subjects  of  my  anxiety  I  might  have  spared  myself. 
The  innkeeper  abruptly  entered,  and  with  a  look  and  tone  of  seeming 
diss  itisfaciion,  mformed  me  that  Juan  had  decamped,  taking  with  him 
my  arms,  and  whatever  of  my  portable  property  he  had  been  able  to 
lay  his  hands  upon.  So  far,  then,  if  the  tale  was  true,  he  was  safe  :  but 
it  setined  wonderful  by  what  means  he  could  have  eluded  a  vigilance 
w  hich,  doubtless,  included  him  in  its  keeping  ;  and  still  more,  that  at 
such  a  moment  he  should  have  chosen  to  rob  me.  A  minute  ago  I 
would  have  staked  my  fortune  on  his  honesty,  and  my  life  on  his 
fidelity.  The  story  was  too  improbable  :  but  on  the  other  hand,  it  was 
but  too  likely  that  he  had  either  been  actually  despatched,  or  else  in 
some  way  removed  from  me,  that  I  might  not  claim  his  company  of 
assistance  in  my  chamber. 

There  was  only  one  person  who  was  likely  to  solve  these  doubts,  and 
she  was  absent  ;  and  I  began  to  consider  that  in  order  to  give  time  and 
scupe  for  her  promised  assistance,  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  retire. 
To  ask  in  a  iew  words  to  be  shown  to  my  room  seemed  an  easy  task  : 
but  when  1  glanced  on  the  dark  scowling  features  of  my  chamberlain, 


ttS  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

harshly  and  vividly  marked  by  the  strong  light  and  shade,  as  he  ben| 
over  the  lamp,  even  those  few  words  were  beyond  my  utterance.  To 
meet  such  a  visa<,^e,  in  the  dead  of  night,  thrusting  apart  one's  curtains, 
would  be  a  sufficient  warning  for  death  !  The  ruffian  seemed  to  un- 
derstand and  anticipate  my  unexpressed  desire,  and  taking  up  the  lamp, 
proposed  to  conduct  me  to  my  chamber.  I  nodded  assent,  and  he 
began  to  lead  the  way  in  the  same  deep  silence.  A  mutual  and  con- 
scious antipathy  seemed  to  keep  us  from  speaking. 

Our  way  led  throui^h  several  dark,  narrow  passages,  and  through 
one  or  two  small  rooms,  which  I  lost  no  time  in  reconnoitring.  The 
accumulated  cobwebs  which  hung  from  all  the  angles  of  the  ceilings, 
the  old  dingy  furniture,  and  the  visible  neglect  of  cleanliness,  gave 
them  an  aspect  of  dreariness  that  chilled  me  to  the  very  soul.  As  I 
passed  through  them,  I  fancied  that  on  the  dusty  floors  I  could  trace 
the  stains  of  blood  ;  the  walls  seemed  spotted  and  splashed  with  the 
same  hue  ;  the  rude  hands  of  my  host-guide  even  seemed  tinged  with 
it.  As  though  I  had  gazed  on  the  sun,  a  crimson  blot  hovered  befoie 
me  wherever  I  looked,  and  imbued  all  objects  with  this  horrible  colour. 
Every  moving  shadow,  projected  by  the  lamp  on  the  walls,  seemed  to 
be  the  passing  spectre  of  some  one  who  had  here  been  murdered, 
sometimes  confronting  me  at  a  door,  sometmies  looking  down  upoa 
me  from  the  ceiling,  or  echoing  me,  step  by  step,  up  the  old,  crazy 
stairs  ;  still  following  me  indeed,  whithersoever  I  went,  as  if  conscious 
of  our  approaching  fellowship  ! 

At  last  I  was  informed  that  I  stood  in  my  allotted  chamber.  I 
instantly  and  mechanically  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  window,  and  a 
moment's  glance  sufficed  to  show  me  that  it  was  strongly  grated.  This 
movement  did  not  escape  the  vigilant  eye  of  my  companion. 

"  Well,  Senor,"  he  said,  "  what  dost  think  ?  have  I  not  bravely  bar- 
ricaded my  chateau  ?  " 

I  could  make  no  answer.  There  was  a  look  and  tone  of  triumph 
and  malicious  irony,  accompanying  the  question,  that  would  not  have 
suffered  me  to  speak  calmly.  The  ruffian  had  secured  his  victim,  and 
looked  upon  me,  no  doubt,  as  a  spider  does  upon  its  prey,  which  it 
h  s  nnmeshed,  and  leaves  to  be  destroyed  at  its  leisure.  Fortunately, 
I  recollected  his  daughter's  caution,  and  subdued  my  emotion  in  his 
presence  ;  but  my  heart  sank  within  me  at  his  exit,  as  I  heard  the 
door  locked  behind  him,  and  felt  myself  his  prisoner.  All  the  horrible 
narratives  I  had  read,  or  heard  related  of  midnight  assassinations,  of 
travellers  murdered  in  such  very  abodes  as  this,  thronged  into  my 
memory  with  a  vivid  and  hideous  fidelity  to  their  wdd  and  horriijle 
details.  A  fearful  curiosity  led  me  towards  the  bed  ;  a  presentiment 
that  it  would  afford  me  some  unequivocal  confirmation  of  these  fears  ; 
and  I  turned  over  the  pillow,  with  a  shuddering  conviction  that  on  the 
under  side  I  should  be  startled  with  stains  of  blood.  It  was,  however, 
fair,  snow-white  indeed  ;  and  the  sheets  and  coverlet  were  of  the  same 
innocent  colour. 

I  then  recollected  the  secret  panel.  It  was  natural  that  I  should  be 
eager  to  verify  its  existence,  but  with  the  strictest  inspection  I  could 
make,  I  was  unable  to  discover  any  trace  of  it.  Panels  indeed  opened 
ipon  me  from  every  side  ;  but  it  was  only  to  usher  forth  hideous  phan* 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  669 

toms  of  armed  ruffians,  with  brandished  daggers,  that  vanished 
again  on  a  moment's  scrutiny  :  and  as  these  panels  were  only  crea- 
tions of  my  ima(:;ination,  so  that  one  for  which  I  sought  had  no 
existence,  I  doubted  not,  but  in  the  bewildered  brain  of  a  maniac. 

Thus,  then,  my  last  avenue  to  escape  was  utterly  annihilated,  and  I 
had  no  hope  left  but  in  such  a  despairing  resistance  as  I  might  make 
by  help  of  the  mere  bones  and  sinews  with  which  God  had  provided 
me.  The  whole  furniture  of  the  chamber  would  not  afford  me  an 
effective  weapon,  and  a  thousand  times  I  cursed  myself  that  I  had  not 
sooner  adopted  this  desperate  resolution,  while  such  rude  arms  as  a 
fireplace  could  supply  me  with  were  within  my  reach.  There  was 
now  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  die  ;  and  Antonio  would  'have  another 
victim  to  avenge.  Alas  !  would  he  ever  know  how  or  where  I  had 
perished  ;  or  that  I  had  even  passed  the  boundaries  of  death  ?  I  should 
fall  unheard,  unseen,  unwept,  and  my  unsoothed  spirit  would  walk 
unavenged,  with  those  shadows  I  had  fancied  wandering.  The 
reflection  maddened  me.  My  brain  whirled  dizzily  round  ;  my 
brow  seemed  parched  by  the  fever  of  my  thoughts,  and  hastening 
to  the  window,  I  threw  open  a  little  wicket  for  air  :  a  grateful  gush 
of  wind  immediately  entered  ;  but  the  lamp  with  which  I  had  been 
making  my  fruitless  search,  was  still  in  my  hand,  and  that  gust  extin- 
guished it. 

Darkness  was  now  added  to  all  my  other  evils.  There  was  no 
moon,  nor  a  single  star;  the  night  was  intensely  obscure,  and 
groping  my  way  back  to  the  bed,  I  cast  myself  upon  it  in  an  agony  of 
despair.  1  cannot  describe  the  dreadful  storm  of  passions  that  shook 
me  :  fear,  anguish,  horror,  self-reproach,  made  up  the  terrible  chaos  ; 
and  then  came  rage,  and  I  vowed,  if  ever  I  survived,  to  visit  my  tor- 
mentors with  a  bloody  and  fierce  retribution.  I  have  said  that  the 
room  was  utterly  dark,  but  imagination  peopled  it  with  terrific  images; 
and  kept  my  eyes  straining  upon  the  gloom,  with  an  attention  pain- 
fully intense.  Shadows,  blacker  even  than  the  night,  seemed  to  pass 
and  repass  before  me;  the  curtains  were  grasped  and  withdrawn; 
visionary  arms,  furnished  with  glancing  steel,  were  uplifted  and 
descended  again  into  obscurity.  Every  sense  was  ass  iiled  ;  the  silence 
was  interrupted  by  audible  breathings — slow,  cautious  footsteps  stirred 
across  the  floor — imagined  hands  travelled  stealthily  over  the  bed- 
clothes, as  if  in  feeling  for  my  face.  Then  I  heard  distant  shrieks, 
and  recognised  the  voice  of  Juan  in  piteous  and  gradually  stifled  inter- 
cession ;  sometimes  the  bed  seemed  descending  under  me,  as  if  into 
Bome  yawning  vault  or  cellar,  and  at  others,  faint  fumes  of  su',  hur 
wonld  seem  to  issue  from  the  floor,  as  if  designed  to  suffocate  me, 
without  affording  me  even  the  poor  chance  of  resistance. 

At  length  a  sound  came,  which  my  ear  readily  distinguished,  by  its 
distinctness,  from  the  mere  suggestions  of  fear  :  it  was  the  cautious 
unlocking  and  opening  of  the  door.  My  eyes  turning  instantly  in  that 
direction  were  eagerly  distended,  but  there  was  not  a  glimmer  of  light 
even  accompanied  the  entrance  of  my  unknown  visitor:  but  it  was  a 
man's  foot.  A  boiling  noise  rushed  through  my  ears,  and  my  tongue 
and  throat  were  parched  with  a  sudden  and  stifling  thirst.  The  powel 
of  utterance  and  of  motion  seemed  at  once  to  desert  me ;  my  hear 


tjo  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

panted  as  though  it  were  grown  too  large  for  my  body,  and  the  weight 

of  twenty  mountains  lay  piled  upon  my  breast.  To  lie  still,  however, 
was  to  be  lost.  By  a  violent  exertion  of  the  will,  I  flung  myself  out  of 
the  bed,  furthest  from  the  door  ;  and  scarcely  had  I  set  foot  upon  the 
ground,  when  I  heard  something  strike  against  the  opposite  side. 
Immediately  afterwards  a  heavy  blow  was  given — a  second — a  third  ; 
tlie  stabs  themselves,  as  well  as  the  sound,  seemed  to  fall  upon  my 
very  heart.  A  cold  sweat  rushed  out  upon  my  forehead.  I  felt  sick, 
my  limbs  bowed,  and  I  could  barely  keep  myself  from  falling.  It  was 
Certain  that  my  absence  would  be  promptly  discovered  :  thcit  a  search 
would  instantly  commence,  and  my  only  chance  was,  by  listening 
intensely  for  his  footsteps,  to  discern  the  course  and  elude  the  ap- 
proaches of  my  foe. 

I  could  hear  him  grasp  the  pillows,  and  the  rustling  of  the  bed- 
clothes as  he  turned  them  over  in  his  search.  For  a  minute  all  was 
then  deeply,  painfully  silent.  I  could  fancy  him  stealing  towards  me, 
and  almost  supposed  the  warmth  of  his  breath  against  my  face.  I 
expected  every  instant  to  feel  myself  seized,  I  knew  not  where,  in  his 
grasp,  and  my  flesh  was  ready  to  shrink  all  over  from  his  touch.  Such 
an  interval  had  now  elapsed  as  I  judged  would  suffice  for  him  to 
traverse  the  bed  ;  and  in  fact  the  next  moment  his  foot  struck  against 
the  wainscot  close  beside  me,  followed  by  a  long  hasty  sweep  of  his 
arm  along  the  wall — it  seemed  to  pass  over  my  head.  Then  all  was 
still  again,  as  if  he  paused  to  listen  ;  meanwhile  I  strode  away,  silently 
as  death,  in  the  direction  of  the  opposite  side  of  the  chamber.  Then 
1  paused  :  but  I  had  suppressed  my  breath  so  long,  that  involuntarily 
it  escaped  from  me  in  a  long  deep  sigh,  and  I  was  forced  again  to 
change  my  station.  There  was  not  a  particle  of  light  ;  but  in  shifting 
cautiously  round,  I  espied  a  bright  spot  or  crevice  in  the  wall  :  upon 
this  spot  I  resolved  to  keep  my  eyes  steadily  fixed,  judging  that  by 
this  means  I  should  be  warned  of  the  approach  of  any  opaque  body, 
by  its  intercepting  the  light.  On  a  sudden,  it  was  obscured  ;  but  I 
have  reason  to  believe  it  was  by  some  unconscious  movement  of  my 
own,  for  just  as  I  retired  backwards  from  the  approach,  as  1  conceived, 
of  my  enemy,  I  was  suddenly  seized  from  behind.  The  crisis  was 
come,  and  all  my  fears  were  consummated  :  I  was  in  the  arms  of  the 
assassin  1 

A  fierce  and  desperate  struggle  instantly  commenced,  which,  from 
its  nature,  could  be  but  of  short  duration.  I  was  defenceless,  but  my 
adversary  was  armed  ;  and,  wherever  he  might  aim  his  dagger,  I  was 
disabled,  by  the  utter  darkness,  from  warding  off  the  blow.  The 
salvation  of  my  life  depended  only  on  the  strength  and  presence  of 
mind  I  might  bring  to  the  conflict.  A  momentary  relaxation  of  his 
hold  indicated  tliat  my  foe  was  about  to  make  use  of  his  weapon  ;  and 
my  immediate  impulse  was  to  grasp  him  so  closely  round  the  body,  as 
to  dej'rive  him  of  the  advantage.  My  antagonist  was  fearfully  power- 
ful, and  struggled  violently  to  free  himself  from  my  arms  ;  but  an 
acquaintance  with  wrestling  and  athletic  sports,  acquired  in  my  youth, 
and  still  more  the  strong  love  of  life,  enabled  me  to  grapple  with  hnn 
and  maintain  my  hold.  I  was  safe,  indeed,  only  so  long  as  I  c  luld 
icstrain  him  from  the  use  of  his  steel     Our  arms  were  tirmly  locked 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  671 

h\  each  other,  our  chests  closely  pressed  together,  and  it  seemed  that 

streni^lh  at  least  was  fairly  m:itched  with  strength. 

From  a  dogged  shame,  perhaps,  or  whatever  cause,  the  ruffian  did 
not  deign  to  summon  any  other  to  his  aid,  but  endeavoured,  singly  and 
silently,  to  accomplish  his  bloody  task.  Not  a  word,  in  fact,  was 
uttered  on  either  part — not  a  breathing  space  even  was  allowed  by 
our  brief  and  desperate  struggle.  Many  violent  efforts  were  made  by 
the  wretch  to  disengage  himself,  in  the  course  of  which  we  were  often 
forced  against  the  wall,  or  hung  balanced  on  straining  sinews,  ready 
to  fall  headlong  on  the  floor.  At  last,  by  one  of  these  furious  exertions, 
we  were  dashed  against  the  wall,  and  the  panelling  giving  way  to  our 
Wfiglit,  we  were  precipitated  with  a  fearful  crash,  but  still  clinging  to 
each  other,  down  a  considerable  descent.  On  touching  the  ground, 
however,  the  violence  of  the  shock  separated  us.  The  ruffian,  fortu- 
nately, had  fallen  undermost,  which  stunned  him,  and  gave  me  time 
to  spring  upon  my  feet. 

A  moment's  glance  round  told  me  that  we  had  fallen  through  the 
secret  panel,  spoken  of  by  the  maniac,  into  her  own  chamber  ;  but 
my  eyes  were  too  soon  riveted  by  one  object,  to  take  any  further  note 
of  the  place.  It  was  her — that  wild,  strange  being  herself,  just  risen 
from  her  chair  at  this  thundering  intrusion,  drowsy  and  bewildered, 
as  if  from  a  calm  and  profound  sleep.  She  that  was  to  watch,  to 
snatch  me  from  the  dagger  itself,  had  forgotten  and  slept  over  the 
ap.'ointment  that  involved  my  very  existence  ! 

But  this  was  no  time  for  wonder  or  repro  ;ch.  My  late  assailant 
was  lying  prostrate  before  me,  and  his  masterless  weapon  was  readily 
to  be  seized  and  appropriated  to  my  own  defence.  I  mij^ht  have  killed 
him,  but  a  moment's  reflection  showed  me  that  his  single  death,  whilst 
it  might  exasperate  his  fellows,  could  tend  but  little  to  my  safety.  This 
was  yet  but  a  present  and  temporary  security  ;  a  respite,  not  a  repiieve, 
from  the  fate  that  impended  over  me.  It  was  important,  therelore,  to 
learn,  if  possible,  from  that  bewildered  creature,  the  means  which 
should  have  led  to  my  escape  from  the  house  ;  and  if  she  was  still 
willing  and  competent  to  become  my  guide.  The  first  step  had  been 
accidentally  accomplished  ;  but  here  it  seemed  that  my  progress  was 
to  find  its  termination.  All  the  past,  except  that  horrible  and  distant 
part  of  it  over  which  she  brooded,  had  utterly  lapsed  again  from  her 
memory,  like  words  traced  upon  water.  The  examination  only  lasted 
for  a  moment,  but  sufficed  to  convince  me  of  this  unwelcome  result. 
What  then,  indeed,  could  have  been  expected  from  the  uncertain  and 
intermitting  intelligences  of  a  maniac  ?  I  wondered  how  I  could 
Lave  built  up  a  single  hope  on  so  slippery  a  foundation. 

It  was  now  too  late  to  arraign  my  folly  or  bewail  its  consequences  ; 
a  tew  minutes  would  recall  the  robber  to  consciousness,  and  those 
were  all  that  would  allow  me  to  seek,  or  avail  mvself  of  any  passage 
for  retreat.  Although  no  other  entrance  was  immediately  apparent,  it 
was  obvious  that  this  chamber  must  have  some  other  one  than  the 
panel  by  which  I  had  so  unexpectedly  arrived  ;  and  this  conclusion 
proved  to  be  correct. 

There  was  a  trap-door,  in  one  corner,  for  communication  with 
beneath.     To  espy  it — to  grasp  the  ring — to  raise  it  up — were  the 


ija  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY, 

transactions  of  an  instant ;  but  no  sooner  was  it  thrown  open,  than 

my  ears  were  assailed  by  a  sudden  uproar  of  sounds  from  below.  The 
noise  seemed  at  first  to  be  the  mere  Bacchanalian  riot  of  a  drunken 
banditti  ;  but  a  continued  attention  made  me  interpret  differently  of 
the  tumult,  which  now  seemed  to  partake  less  of  the  mirth  of  carousal, 
than  of  the  violence  and  voices  of  some  serious  affray.  The  distance 
of  the  sounds,  which  came  from  the  further  part  of  the  house,  pre- 
cluded an  accurate  judgment  of  their  nature.  Had  the  banditti 
quarrelled  amongst  themselves,  and  proceeded  to  blows?  The  dis- 
order and  distraction  incident  to  such  a  tumult  could  not  but  be  highly 
favourable  to  my  purpose  ;  and  I  was  just  on  the  point  of  stepping; 
through  the  aperture,  when  the  ruffian  behind  me,  as  if  aroused  by  the 
uproar,  sprang  up  on  his  feet,  rushed  past  me  with  a  speed  that 
seemed  to  be  urged  by  alarm,  and  bounded  through  the  trap-door. 
The  room  beneath  was  in  darkness,  so  that  I  was  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish his  course,  which  his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  place,  never- 
theless, enabled  him  to  pursue  with  ease  and  certainty. 

As  soon  as  his  footsteps  were  unheard,  I  followed,  with  less  speed 
and  celerity.  I  might,  indeed,  have  possessed  myself  of  the  lamp 
which  stood  upon  the  table,  but  a  light  would  infallibly  have  betrayed 
me,  and  I  continued  to  grope  my  way  in  darkness  and  ignorance  to 
the  lower  chamber.  An  influx  Oi  sound,  to  the  left,  denoted  an  open 
door,  and  directing  my  course  to  that  quarter,  I  found  that  it  led  into 
a  narrow  passage.  As  yet  1  had  seen  no  light  ;  but  now  a  cool  gush 
of  air  seemed  to  promise  that  a  few  steps  onward  I  should  meet  with 
a  window.  It  proved  to  be  only  a  loop-hole.  The  noise  as  I  advanced 
had  meanwhile  become  more  and  more  violent,  and  was  now  even 
accompanied  by  irregular  discharges  of  pistols.  My  vicinity  to  the 
scene  of  contest  made  me  hesitate.  I  could  even  distinguish  voices, 
and  partially  understood  the  blasphemies  and  imprecations  that  were 
most  loudly  uttered.  I  had  before  attributed  this  tumult  to  a  brawling 
contention  amongst  the  inmates  themselves,  but  now  the  indications 
seemed  to  be  those  of  a  more  serious  strife.  The  discharges  of  fire- 
arms were  almost  incessant,  and  the  shouts  and  cries  were  like  the 
cheers  of  onset  and  battle,  of  fury  and  anguish.  The  banditti  had 
doubtless  been  tracked  and  assaulted  in  their  den  ;  and  it  became 
necessary  to  consider  what  course  in  such  a  case  it  was  the  most 
prudent  for  me  to  adopt.  Should  I  seek  for  some  place  of  conceal- 
ment, and  there  await  the  issue  of  a  contest,  which  would  most 
probably  terminate  in  favour  of  justice  ?— or  ought  1  not  rather  to 
hasten  and  lend  all  my  energies  to  the  cause  ?  I  still  held  in  my  hand 
the  dagger,  of  which  I  had  possessed  myself;  but  could  it  be  hoped 
that  thus  imperfectly  armed,  if  armed  it  might  be  called,  my  feeble  aid 
could  essentially  contribute  to  such  a  victory  } 

The  decision  was  as  suddenly  as  unexpectedly  resolved.  A  familiar 
voice,  which  I  could  not  mistake,  though  loud  and  raving  far  above  its 
natural  pitch,  amidst  a  clamour  of  fifty  others — struck  on  my  ear ;  and 
no  other  call  was  necessary  to  precipitate  my  steps  towards  the  scene 
of  action.  I  had  yet  to  traverse  some  passages,  which  the  increase 
of  light  enabled  me  to  do  more  readily.  The  smoke,  the  din,  the 
flashing  reflections  along  the  walls,  now  told  me  that  1  was  close  upon 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY,  «73 

the  strife  ;  and  in  a  few  moments,  on  turning  an  abrupt  angle,  I  had 

it  in  all  its  confusion  before  me. 

The  first  and  nearest  object  that  struck  me  was  the  figure  of  the 
innkeeper  himself,  apparently  in  the  act  of  reloading  his  piece.  His 
back  was  towards  me,  but  I  could  not  mistake  his  tall  and  muscular 
frame.  On  hearing  a  step  behind  him,  he  turned  hastily  round,  dis- 
charged a  pistol  at  my  head,  and  then  disappeared  in  the  thickest  of 
the  tumult.  The  ball,  however,  only  whizzed  past  my  ear,  but  not 
harmless,  for  immediately  afterwards  I  felt  some  one  reel  against  me 
from  behind,  clasp  me  for  an  instant  by  the  shoulders,  and  then  roll 
downwards  to  the  floor.  The  noise,  and  the  exciting  interest  which 
hur'ied  me  hither  had  hindered  me  from  perceiving  that  I  was  followed, 
and  I  turned  eagerly  round  to  ascertain  who  had  become  the  victim  of 
the  mis-directed  shot.  It  was  the  ruffian's  own  daughter,  the  unhappy 
maniac  herself,  whose  shattered  brain  had  thus  received  from  his  hand 
the  last  pang  it  was  destined  to  endure  ;  a  single  groan  was  all  that 
the  poor  wretch  had  uttered.  I  felt  an  inexpressible  shock  at  this 
horrid  catastrophe.  I  was  stained  with  her  blood,  particles  of  her 
bram  even  adhered  to  my  clothes ;  and  I  was  glad  to  escape  from  the 
horror  excited  by  the  harrowing  spectacle,  by  plunging  into  the  chaos 
before  me.  Further  than  of  a  few  moments,  during  which,  however, 
I  had  exchanged  and  parried  a  number  of  blows  and  thrusts,  I  have 
no  recollection.  A  spent  ball  on  the  rebound  struck  me  directly  on 
the  forehead,  and  laid  me  insensible,  under  foot,  amidst  the  dying  and 
the  dead. 

When  I  recovered,  I  found  myself  lying  on  a  bed— the  same,  by  a 
strange  coincidence,  that  I  had  already  occupied ;  but  the  faces  around 
me,  though  warlike,  were  friendly.  My  first  eager  inquiries,  as  soon 
as  I  could  speak,  were  for  my  friend  Antonio,  for  it  was  indeed  his 
voice  that  I  had  recognised  amidst  the  conflict,  but  I  could  obtain  no 
direct  answer.  Sad  and  silent  looks,  sighs  and  tears,  only,  made  up 
the  terrible  response.  He  was  then  slain  !  Nothing  but  death  indeed 
would  have  kept  him  at  such  a  moment  from  mv  pillow.  It  availed 
nothing  to  me  that  the  victory  had  been  won,  that  iheir  wretched 
adversaries  were  all  prisoners  or  destroyed ;  at  such  a  price,  a  thousand 
of  such  victdries  would  have  been  dearly  purchased.  If  I  could  have 
felt  any  consolation  in  his  death,  it  would  have  been  to  learn  that  hit 
arm  had  first  amply  avenged  in  blood  the  murder  of  the  Cond^— 
that  the  innkeeper  had  been  cleft  by  him  to  the  heart — that  numbers 
of  the  robbers  had  perished  by  his  heroic  hand  :  but  I  only  replied 
to-^he  tidings  with  tears  for  my  friend,  and  regrets  that  I  had  not  died 
with  him.  Hovvvfuelly,  by  his  going  before  me,  had  the  sweet  belief 
of  our  youth  been  falsified  !  Was  it  possible  that  I  had  survived  : 
perhaps  to  see  the  grass  grow  over  his  head  ;  and  to  walk  alone  upon 
the  earth,  when  he  should  be  nothmg  but  a  little  dust .''  Why  had  I 
been  spared?  others  could  convey  to  Isabelle  the  afflicting  intelligenci 
that  she  had  no  longer  a  father  or  a  lover  ;  and  in  such  an  overwhelm- 
ing dispensation,  shs  could  well  forego  the  poor  and  unavailing 
consolations  of  a  friend. 

Such  were  my  natural  and  desponding  feelings,  on  contemplating 
the  loss  of  my  beloved   friend ; — but  new  and  indispensable   dutie* 

3  U 


i74  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

recalled  the  energies  of  my  mind,  and  diverted  me  from  a  grief  which 
would  else  have  consumed  me.  The  last  sacred  rites  remained  to  be 
performed  for  the  dead  ;  and  although  the  fate  of  the  Condd  might 
readily  be  divined,  it  was  necessary  to  establish  its  certaii/ty  by  the 
discovery  of  his  remains.  The  prisoners  who  were  questioned  on  this 
point  maintained  an  obstinate  silence  ;  and  the  researches  of  the 
military  had  hitherto  been  unavailing,  except  to  one  poor  wretch, 
whom  they  rescued  from  extreme  suffering  and  probable  death. 

I  have  related  the  disappearance  of  my  servant  Juan,  and  my 
suspicions  as  to  the  cause  of  his  absence  were  found  to  have  verged 
nearly  on  the  truth.  He  had  saved  himself,  it  appeared,  from 
immediate  danger,  by  a  feigned  compliance  with  the  invitations  of  the 
banditti  to  enrol  himself  m  their  numbers  ;  but  as  a  precaution  or  a 
probation,  he  Imd  been  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  consigned  to  a 
garret  till  I  should  have  been  first  disposed  of.  The  poor  fellow  was 
dreadfully  cramped  in  his  limbs  by  the  tightness  of  the  ligatures,  and 
was  nearly  half  dead  with  cold  and  affright,  when  he  was  thus  oppor- 
tunely discovered  ;  but  no  sooner  had  he  revived,  and  comprehended 
the  object  of  our  search,  than  his  memory  supplied  us  with  a  clue  : — 
the  wine  barrels  !  The  house  had  been  narrowly  investigated  ;  but 
these  cellars,  by  some  hasty  omission,  had  been  overlooked. 

I  resolved  to  lead  this  new  inquisition  myself.  Juan's  sickening  and 
disgustful  recollections,  which  now  pointed  his  suspicions,  would  not 
let  him  be  present  at  the  examination  ;  but  he  directed  us  by  such 
minute  particulars,  that  we  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  our  way  to  the 
spot.  There  were  other  traces  had  they  been  necessary  for  our 
guidance  :  stains  of  blood  were  seen  on  descending  the  stairs  and 
across  the  floor,  till  they  terminated  at  a  large  barrel  or  tun,  which 
stood  first  of  a  range  of  several  others  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  cellar. 
Here  then  stood  the  vessel  that  contained  the  object  of  our  search. 
My  firm  conviction  that  it  was  so,  made  me  see,  as  through  the  wood 
itself,  the  mutilated  appearance  which  I  had  conceived  of  my  ill-fated 
uncle.  The  horrible  picture  overcame  me  ; — and  whilst  I  involun- 
tarily turned  aside,  the  mangl,ed  quarters  of  a  human  body,  and  finally 
the  dissevered  head,  were  drawn  forth  from  the  infernal  receptacle  ! 
As  soon  as  I  dared  turn  my  eyes,  they  fell  upon  the  fearful  spectacle ; 
but  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  lineaments  I  had  expected  to  meet.  The 
remains  were  those  of  a  middle-aged  man  ;  the  features  were  quite 
unknown  to  me  ;  but  a  profusion  of  long  black  hair  told  me  at  a 
glance,  that  this  was  not  the  head  of  the  aged  Condd.  Neither  could 
this  belong  to  the  old  man  who  had  been  alluded  to  by  the  maniac  as 
having  been  strangled.     Our  search  must,  therefore,  be  extended. 

The  neighbouring  barrel  from  its  sound  was  empty,  and  the  next 
likewise  ;  but  the  third  and  last  one,  on  being  struck,  gave  indications 
of  being  occupied  ;  perhaps,  by  contents  as  horrible  as  those  of  the 
first.  It  was,  however,  only  half  filled  with  water.  There  was  still  a 
smaller  cellar,  communicating  with  the  outer  one  by  a  narrow  arched 
passage  ;  but  on  examination,  it  proved  to  have  been  applied  to  its 
original  and  legitimate  purpose,  for  it  contained  a  considerable  quantity 
of  wine.     Every  recess,  every  nook,  was  carefully  inspected ;  the  floors 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  67$ 

In  particular  were  minutely  examined,  but  they  supplied  no  appearance 
of  having  been  recently  disturbed. 

This  unsuccessful  result  almost  begot  a  doubt  in  me,  whether, 
indeed,  this  place  had  been  the  theatre  of  the  imputed  tragedy  ;  my 
strongest  belief  had  been  founded  on  the  words  of  the  maniac,  in 
allusion  to  the  old  man  who  had  been  strangled  ;  but  her  story  pointed 
to  no  determined  period  of  time,  and  might  refer  to  an  occurrence  of 
many  years  back.  Surely  the  police  and  the  military,  Antonio  cer- 
tainly,  had  been  led  hither  by  some  more  perfect  information.  I  had 
neglected,  hitherto,  to  possess  myself  of  the  particulars  which  led  to 
their  attack  on  the  house  ;  but  the  answers  to  my  inquiries  tended  in 
no  way  to  throw  any  light  upon  the  fate  of  the  Conde.  Antonio,  in 
his  progress  through  the  mountains,  had  fallen  in  with  a  party  of  the 
provincial  militia,  who  were  scouring  the  country  in  pursuit  of  the 
predatory  bands  that  infested  it  ;  and  the  capture  of  a  wounded  robber 
had  furnished  them  with  particulars  which  led  to  their  attack  upon 
the  inn.  The  dying  wretch  had  been  eagerly  interrogated  by  Antonio, 
as  to  his  knowledge  of  the  transactions  of  his  fellows ;  but  though  he 
could  obtain  no  intelHgence  of  the  Conde,  his  impetuous  spirit  made 
him  readily  unite  himself  with  an  expedition  against  a  class  of  men, 
to  whom  he  confidently  attributed  the  old  nobleman's  mysterious 
disappearance.  The  mournful  sequel  I  have  related.  His  venge- 
ance was  amply  but  dearly  sated  on  the  innkeeper  and  his  blood- 
thirsty associates  ; — but  the  fate  of  my  uncle  remained  as  doubtful  as 
ever. 

The  discovery  was  reserved  for  chance.  One  of  the  troopers,  in 
shifting  some  litter  in  the  stables,  remarked  that  the  earth  and  stones 
beneath  appeared  to  have  been  recently  turned  up  :  the  fact  was 
immediately  communicated  to  his  officer,  and  I  was  summoned  to  be 
present  at  this  new  investigation.  The  men  had  already  begun  to 
dig  when  I  arrived,  and  some  soiled  fragments  of  clothes  which  they 
turned  up  already  assured  them  of  the  nature  and  the  nearness  of  the 
deposit.  A  few  moments'  more  labour  sufficed  to  lay  it  bare  ;  and 
tlien,  by  the  torchlight,  I  instantly  recognised  the  grey  hairs  and  the 
features  of  him  of  whom  we  were  in  search.  All  that  remained  of  my 
uncle  lay  before  me  !  The  starting  and  blood-distended  eyes,  the 
gaping  mouth,  the  blackness  of  the  face,  and  a  livid  mark  round  the 
neck,  confirmed  the  tale  of  the  maniac  as  to  the  cruel  mode  of  his 
death.     May  I  never  gaze  on  such  an  object  again  ! 

Hitlierto,  the  excitement,  the  labour,  the  uncertainty  of  the  search 
had  sustained  me  ;  but  now  a  violent  re-action  took  place,  a  reflux  of 
all  the  horrors  I  had  witnessed  and  endured  rushed  over  me  like  a 
flood  ;  and  for  some  time  I  raved  in  a  state  of  high  delirium.  I  was 
again  laid  in  bed,  and  in  the  interval  of  my  repose,  preparations  were 
made  for  our  departure.  The  bodies  of  the  slain  robbers  and  militia- 
men were  promptly  interred,  and  after  securing  all  the  portable  effects 
of  any  value,  which  the  soldiers  were  allowed  to  appropriate  as  a  spoil, 
the  house  was  ordered  to  be  flred,  as  affording  too  eligible  a  refuge 
and  rendezvous  for  such  desperate  associations.  At  my  earnest  re- 
quest, a  separate  grave  had  been  provided  for  the  remains  of  the 
vnlortunate  maniac,  which  were  committed  to  the  earth  with  all  the 


67«  THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 

decencies  that  our  limited  time  and  means  could  afford.  The  spot 
had  been  chosen  at  the  foot  of  a  tall  pine,  in  the  rear  of  the  house, 
and  a  small  cross  carved  in  the  bark  of  the  tree  was  the  only  memorial 
of  this  ill-starred  girl. 

These  cares,  speedily  executed,  occupied  till  daybreak,  and  just  at 
sunrise  we  commenced  our  march.  A  horse,  left  masterless  by  the 
death  of  one  of  the  troopers,  was  assigned  to  me  ;  two  others  were 
more  mournfully  occupied  by  the  bodies  of  Antonio  and  the  Condd, 
each  covered  with  a  coarse  sheet  ;  and  the  captive  robbers  followed, 
bound,  with  their  faces  backward,  upon  the  innkeeper's  mules.  The 
innkeeper's  wife  was  amongst  the  prisoners,  and  her  loud  lamentations, 
breaking  out  afresh  at  every  few  paces,  prevailed  even  over  the 
boisterous  merriment  of  the  troopers,  and  the  low-muttered  impreca- 
tions of  the  banditti.  When,  from  the  rear,  I  looked  upon  this  wild 
procession,  in  the  cold  grey  liy;ht  of  the  morning  winding  down  the 
mountains,  that  warlike  escort,  those  two  horses,  with  their  funereal 
burthens,  the  fierce  scowling  faces  of  the  prisoners,  confronting  me  ; 
and  then  turned  back,  and  distinguished  the  tall  pine-tree,  and  saw 
the  dense  column  of  smoke  soaring  upward  from  those  ancient  ruins, 
as  from  some  altar  dedicated  to  vengeance,  the  whole  past  appeared 
to  me  like  a  dream  !  My  mind,  stunned  by  the  magnitude  and 
number  of  events  which  had  been  crowded  into  a  si(pgle  night's  space, 
refused  to  believe  that  so  bounded  a  period  had  sufficed  for  such 
disproportionate  effects  ;  but  recalled  again  and  again  every  scene 
and  every  fact, — as  if  to  be  convinced  by  the  vividness  of  the  repeti- 
tions, and  the  fidelity  of  the  details, — of  a  foregone  reality.  I  could 
not  banish  or  divert  these  thoughts  :  all  the  former  horrors  were 
freshly  dramatised  before  me  ;  the  images  of  the  innkeeper,  of  th.e 
maniac,  of  Juan,  of  Antonio,  were  successively  conjured  up,  and  acted 
their  parts  anew,  till  all  was  finally  wound  up  in  the  consummation 
that  riveted  my  eyes  on  those  two  melancholy  burthens  before  me. 

But  I  will  not  dwell  here  on  those  objects  as  1  did  then.  An  hour 
or  two  after  sunrise  we  entered  a  town,  where  we  delivered  up  to  jus- 
tice those  miserable  wretches,  who  were  afterwards  to  be  seen  impaled 
and  blackening  in  the  sun  throughout  the  province.  And  here  also 
my  own  progress,  for  three  long  months,  was  destined  to  be  impeded. 
Other  lips  than  mine  conveyed  to  Is.ibelle  the  dismal  tidings  with 
which  I  was  charged  ;  other  hands  th.m  mine  assisted  in  paying  to  the 
dead  their  last  pious  dues.  Excessive  fatigue,  grief,  horror,  and  a  ne- 
glected wound,  generated  a  raging  fever,  from  which,  with  difficulty, 
and  by  slow  degrees,  I  recovered, — alas  !  only  to  find  myself  an  alien 
on  the  earth,  without  one  tie  to  attach  me  to  the  life  I  had  so  unwill- 
ingly regained  !..... 

I  have  only  to  speak  of  the  fate  of  one  more  person  connected  with 
this  history.  In  the  Convent  of  St  *  *  *  at  Madrid,  there  is  one 
who,  by  the  peculiar  sweetness  of  her  disposition,  and  the  superior 
sanctity  of  her  life,  has  obtained  the  love  and  veneration  of  all  her  pure 
sisterhood.  She  is  called  Sister  Isabelle.  The  lines  of  an  early  and 
acute  sorrow  are  deeply  engraven  on  her  brow,  but  her  life  is  placid 
and  serene,  as  it  is  holy  and  saint-like  ;  and  her  eyes  will  neither  weep, 
Bor  her  bosom  heave  a  sigh,  but  when  she  recurs  to  the  memorials  oi 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE  HOLY  HERMIT.  677 

this  melancholy  story.  She  is  now  nearly  ripe  for  heaven  ;  and  may 
her  bliss  there  be  as  endless  and  perfect,  as  here  it  was  troubled  and 
fearfully  hurried  to  its  close  1 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  THE  HOLY  HERMIT. 

IN  my  younger  days,  there  was  much  talk  of  an  old  hermit  of  great 
sanctity,  who  lived  in  a  rocky  cave  near  Naples.  He  had  a  very 
reverend  grey  beard,  which  reached  down  to  his  middle,  where  his 
body,  looking  like  a  pismire's,  was  almost  cut  in  two  by  the  tightness 
of  a  stout  leathern  girdle,  which  he  wore  probably  to  restrain  his 
hunger,  during  his  long  and  frequent  abstinences.  His  nails,  besides, 
had  grown  long  and  crooked  like  the  talons  of  a  bird  ;  his  arms  and 
legs  were  bare,  and  his  brown  garments  very  coarse  and  ragged.  He 
never  tasted  flesh,  but  fed  upon  herbs  and  roots,  and  dr.ink  nothing 
but  water;  nor  ever  lodged  anywhere,  winter  or  summer,  but  in  his 
bleak  rocky  cavern  ;  above  all,  it  was  his  painful  custom  to  stand  for 
hours  together  with  his  arms  extended,  in  imitation  of  the  holy  cross, 
by  way  of  penance  and  mortification  for  the  sins  of  his  body. 

After  many  years  spent  in  these  austerities,  he  fell  ill,  towards  the 
autumn,  of  a  monal  disease,  whereupon  he  was  constantly  visited  by 
certain  Benedictines  and  Cordeliers,  who  had  convents  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, not  so  much  as  a  work  of  charity  and  mercy,  as  that  they  were 
anxious  to  obtain  his  body,  for  they  made  sure  that  many  notable 
miracles  might  be  wrought  at  his  tomb.  Accordingly,  they  hovered 
about  his  death-bed  of  leaves,  like  so  many  ravens  when  they  scent  a 
prey,  but  more  jealous  of  e:ich  other,  till  the  pious  hermit's  last  breath 
at  length  took  flight  towards  the  skies. 

As  soon  as  he  was  dead,  the  two  friars  who  were  watching  him,  ran 
each  to  their  several  convents,  to  report  the  event.  The  Cordelier, 
being  swiftest  of  foot,  was  the  first  to  arrive  with  his  tidings,  when  he 
found  his  brethren  just  sitting  down  to  their  noontide  meal  ;  whereas 
when  the  Benedictines  heard  the  news,  they  were  at  prayers,  which 
gave  them  theadvantage.  Cutting  the  service  short,  therefore,  with  an 
abrupt  amen,  they  ran  instantly  in  a  body  to  the  cave  ;  but  before 
they  could  well  fetch  their  breath,  the  Cordeliers  also  came  up,  finishing 
their  dinner  as  they  ran,  and  both  parties  ranged  themselves  about  the 
dead  hermit.  Father  Gometa,  a  Cordelier,  and  a  very  portly  man, 
then  stepping  in  front  of  his  fraternity,  addressed  them  as  follows  : — 

"  My  dear  brethren,  we  are  too  late,  as  you  see,  to  receive  the  pass- 
ing breath  of  the  holy  man  ;  he  is  quite  dead  and  cold.  Put  your 
victuals  out  of  your  hands,  therefore,  and  with  all  due  reverence  assist 
me  to  carry  these  saintly  relics  to  our  convent,  that  they  may  repose 
amongst  his  fellow  Cordeliers." 

The  Benedictines  murmuring  at  this  expression  ;  "Yea,"  added  he, 
"  I  may  truly  call  him  a  Cordelier,  and  a  rigid  one  ;  'yitness  his 
leathrrn  girdle,  which,  for  want  of  a  rope,  he  hath  belted  round  his 
middle,  almost  to  the  cutting  asunder  of  his  holy  body.  Take,  up  I  say^ 
these  precious  relics  ; "  whereupon  his  followers,  obeying:  his  commandS| 


678  THE  MIRACLE  OF 

and  the  Benedictines  resisting  them,  there  arose  a  lively  struggle,  as  if 

between  so  many  Greeks  and  Trojans,  over  the  dead  bcriy.  The  two 
fraternities,  however,  beiny:  equally  matched  in  strength,  they  seemed 
more  likely  to  dismember  the  hermit,  than  to  carry  him  off  on  either 
side,  wherefore  Father  Gonieta,  by  dint  of  entreaties  and  struggling, 
procured  a  truce.  "  It  was  a  shameful  thing,"  he  told  them,  "  for 
servants  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  as  they  were,  to  mingle  in  such  an 
affray  ;  and  besides  that,  the  country  people  being  likely  to  witness  it, 
the  scandal  of  such  a  broil  would  do  more  harm  to  them,  jointly,  than 
the  possession  of  the  body  could  be  a  benefit  to  either  of  their  orders," 
The  religious  men,  of  both  sides,  concurring  in  the  prudence  of  this 
advice,  they  left  a  friar,  on  either  part,  to  take  charge  of  the  dead  body, 
and  then  adjourned,  by  common  consent,  to  the  house  of  the  Bene- 
dictines. 

The  chapel  being  very  large,  and  convenient  for  the  purpose,  they 
went  thither  to  carry  on  the  debate  ;  and,  surely,  such  a  strange  kind 
of  service  had  never  been  performed  before  within  its  wills.  Father 
Gometa,  standing  beside  a  painted  window,  which  made  his  face  of  all 
manner  of  hues,  began  in  a  pompous  discourse  to  assert  the  claims  of 
his  convent  ;  but  Friar  John  quickly  interrupted  him  ;  and  another 
brother  contradicting  Friar  John,  all  the  monks,  Benedictines  as  well 
as  Cordeliers,  were  soon  talking  furiously  together  at  the  same 
moment.  Their  Babel-arguments,  therefore,  were  balanced  against 
each  other.  At  last,  Brother  Geronimo,  who  had  a  shrill  voice  like  a 
parrot's,  leaped  upon  a  bench,  and  called  out  for  a  hearing  ;  and, 
moreover,  clapping  two  large  missals  together,  in  the  manner  of  a  pair 
of  castanets,  he  dinned  the  other  noise-mongers  into  a  temporary 
silence.  As  soon  as  they  were  quiet — "  This  squabble,"  said  he,  "may 
easily  be  adjusted.  As  for  the  hermit's  body,  let  those  have  it,  of 
whatever  order,  who  have  ministered  to  the  good  man's  soul,  and  given 
him  the  extreme  unction," 

At  this  proposal  there  was  a  general  silence  throughout  the  chapel  ; 
till  Father  Gometa,  feeling  what  a  scandal  it  would  be  if  such  a  man 
had  died  without  the  last  sacrament,  affirmed  that  he  had  given  to 
him  the  wafer  ;  and  Father  Philippo,  on  behalf  of  the  Benedictines, 
declared  he  had  performed  the  same  office.  Thus,  that  seemed  to 
have  been  superfluously  repeated,  which,  in  truth,  had  been  altogether 
omitted.  Wherefore  Geronimo,  at  his  wit's  end,  proposed  that  the 
superiors  should  draw  lots,  and  had  actually  cut  a  slip  or  two  out  of 
the  margin  of  his  psalter  for  the  purpose  ;  but  Father  Gometa  relied 
too  much  on  his  own  subtlety,  to  refer  the  issue  to  mere  chance.  In 
this  extremity,  a  certain  Capuchin  happening  to  be  present,  they  be- 
sought him,  as  a  neutral  man  and  impartial,  to  lead  them  to  some 
decision  ;  and  after  a  little  thinking,  he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  bring 
them  to  an  acceptable  method  of  arbitration. 

Tlie  matter  being  thus  arranged,  the  Cordeliers  returned  to  their  own 
convent,  where,  as  soon  as  they  arrived.  Father  Gometa  assembled 
them  all  in  the  refectory,  and  spoke  to  them  in  these  words  : 

"  You  have  heard  it  settled,  my  brethren,  that  the  claims  of  oui 
several  convents  are  to  be  determined  by  propinquity  to  the  cave. 
Vow  I  know  that  our  crafty  rivals  will  omit  no  artifice  that  may  show 


THE  HOL  Y  HERMIT.  67f 

their  house  to  be  the  nearest  ;  wherefore,  not  to  be  wilfully  duped,  I 
am  resolved  to  make  a  proper  sub<;traciion  from  our  own  measure- 
ments. I  foresee,  notwithstanding,  that  this  measuring  bout  will  lead 
to  no  accommodation  ;  for  the  reckonings  on  both  sides  being  false,  will 
certainly  beget  a  fresh  cavil.  Go,  therefore,  some  of  you,  very  warily, 
and  bring  hither  the  blessed  body  of  the  hermit,  which,  by  God's  grace, 
will  save  a  great  deal  of  indecent  dissension,  and  then  the  Benedictines 
may  measure  as  unfairly  as  they  please." 

The  brethren,  approving  of  this  design,  chose  but  four  of  the  stoutest, 
amongst  whom  was  Friar  Francis,  to  proceed  on  this  expedition  ;  and 
in  the  meantime,  the  event  fell  out  as  the  superior  had  predicted.  The 
adverse  measurers,  encountering  on  their  task,  began  to  wrangle  ;  and 
after  belabouring  each  other  with  their  rods,  returned  with  complaints 
to  their  separate  convents  ;  but  Friar  Francis,  with  his  comrades, 
proceeded  prosperously  to  the  cave,  where  they  found  the  dead  bcdy 
of  the  hermit,  but  neither  of  the  truant  friars  who  had  been  appointed 
to  keep  watch. 

Taking  the  carcase,  therefore,  without  any  obstruction,  on  their 
shoulders,  they  began  to  wend  homewards  very  merrily,  till  coming  to 
a  by-place  in  the  middle  of  a  wood,  they  agreed  to  set  down  their 
burden  awhile,  and  refresh  themselves  after  their  labour.  One  of  the 
friars,  however,  of  weaker  nerves  than  the  rest,  objected  to  the  com- 
panionship of  the  dead  hermit,  who  with  his  long  white  beard  and  his 
ragged  garments,  which  stirred  now  and  then  in  the  wind,  was  in  truth 
a  very  awful  object.  Dragging  him  aside,  therefore,  into  a  dark 
solitary  thicket,  they  returned  to  sit  down  on  the  grass  ;  and  pulling 
out  their  flasks,  which  contained  some  very  passable  wine,  they  began 
to  enjoy  themselves  without  stint  or  hindrance. 

The  last  level  rays  of  the  setting  sun  were  beginning  to  shoot 
through  the  horizontal  boughs,  tin:4ing  the  trunks,  which  at  noon  are 
all  shady  and  obscure,  with  a  flaming  gold  ;  but  the  merry  friars 
thought  it  prudent  to  wait  till  nightfall  before  they  ventured  with 
their  charge  beyond  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  wood.  As  soon,  there- 
fore, as  it  was  so  safely  dark  that  they  could  barely  distinguish  each 
other,  they  returned  to  the  thicket  for  the  body  ;  but  to  their  horrible 
dismay,  the  dead  hermit  had  vanished,  nobody  knew  whither,  leaving 
them  only  a  handful  of  his  grey  beard,  as  a  legacy,  with  a  remnant  or 
two  of  his  tattered  garments.  At  this  discovery,  the  friars  were  in 
despair,  and  some  of  them  began  to  weep,  dreading  to  go  back  to  the 
convent ;  but  Friar  Francis,  being  in  a  jolly  mood,  put  them  in  better 
heart. 

"  Why,  what  a  whimpering  is  this,"  said  he,  "about  a  dead  body  ? 
The  good  father,  as  you  know,  was  no  fop,  and  did  not  smell  over 
purely  ;  for  which  reason,  doubtless,  some  hungry  devil  of  a  wolf  has 
relieved  us  from  the  labour  of  bearing  him  any  farther.  There  is  no 
such  heretic  as  your  wolf  is,  who  would  not  be  likely  to  boggle  at  his  great 
piety,  though  1  marvel  he  did  not  object  to  his  mea-reness.  I  tell  you, 
take  courage,  then,  and  trust  to  me  to  clear  you,  who  have  brought 
you  out  of  fifty  such  scrapes." 

The  friars,  knowing  that  he  spoke  reasonably,  soon  comforted  them- 


68o  THE  WIDOW  OF  G ALICIA. 

selves ;  and  running  back  to  the  convent,  they  repaired,  all  trembling, 
into  the  presence  of  the  superior. 

Father  Gometn,  inquiring  eagerly  if  they  had  brought  tho  body,  Friar 
Francis  answered  boldly  that  they  had  not.  "  But  here,"  said  he,  "  is 
a  part  of  his  most  reverend  beard,  and  also  his  mantle,  which,  like 
Elisha,  he  dropped  upon  us  as  he  ascended  into  heaven  ;  for  as  the 
pious  Elisha  was  translated  into  the  skies,  even  so  was  the  holy  hermit, 
excepting  these  precious  relics— being  torn  out  of  our  arms,  as  it  were, 
by  a  whirlwind."  Anon  appealing  to  his  comrades,  to  confirm  his 
fabrication,  they  declared  that  it  happened  with  them  even  as  he  related  \ 
and  moreover,  that  a  bright  and  glorious  light  shining  upon  them,  as 
it  did  upon  Saul  and  his  company,  when  they  journeyed  to  Damascus, 
had  so  bewildered  them,  that  they  had  not  yet  recovered  their  perfect 
senses. 

In  this  plausible  manner,  the  friars  got  themselves  dismissed  with- 
out any  penance  ;  but  Father  Gometa  discredited  the  story  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart,  and  went  to  bed  in  great  trouble  of  mind,  not 
doubting  that  they  had  lost  the  body  by  some  negligence,  and  that  on 
the  morrow  it  would  be  found  in  the  possession  of  his  rivals,  the  Bene- 
dictines. The  latter,  however,  proving  as  disconcerted  as  he  was,  he 
took  comfort,  and  causing  the  story  to  be  set  down  at  large  in  the 
records  of  the  convent,  and  subscribed  with  the  names  of  the  four 
friars,  he  had  it  read  publicly  on  the  next  Sunday  from  the  pulpit, 
with  an  exhibition  of  the  beard  and  the  mantle,  which  procured  a  great 
deal  of  wonder  and  reverence  amongst  the  congregation. 

The  Benedictines  at  first  were  vexed  at  the  credit  which  was  thus 
lost  to  their  own  convent ;  but  being  afterwards  pacified  with  a  portion 
of  the  grey  hairs  and  a  shred  or  two  of  the  brown  cloth,  they  joined  in 
the  propagation  of  the  story ;  and  the  country  people  believe  to  this 
day  in  the  miracle  of  the  holy  hermit 


THE    WIDOW  OF  GALICIA, 

THERE  lived  in  the  Province  of  Galicia,  a  lady  so  perfectly  beau- 
tiful, that  she  was  called  by  travellers,  and  by  all  indeed  wha 
beheld  her,  the  Flower  of  Spam.  It  too  frequently  happens  that  such 
handsome  women  are  but  as  beautiful  weeds,  useless  or  even  noxious  ; 
whereas  with  her  excelling  charms,  she  possessed  all  those  virtues 
which  should  properly  inhabit  in  so  lovely  a  person.  She  had  theie- 
fore  many  wooers,  but  especially  a  certain  old  knight  of  Castile 
(bulky  in  person,  and  with  hideously  coarse  features),  who,  as  he  was 
exceedingly  wealthy,  made  the  most  tempting  offers  to  induce  her  to 
become  his  mistress,  and  failing  in  that  object  by  reason  of  her  strict 
virtue,  he  proposed  to  espouse  her.  But  she,  despising  him  as  a  bad 
and  brutal  man,  which  was  his  character,  let  f.dl  the  blessing  of  her 
affection  on  a  young  gentleman  of  small  estate  but  i^ood  reputation  in 
the  province,  and  being  speedily  married,  they  lived  together  for  three 
years  very  happily.     Notwithstanding  this,  the  abominable  knight  did 


THE  WIDOW  OF  G ALICIA.  68i 

not  cease  to  persecute  her,  till  being  rudely  checked  by  her  husband, 

and  threatened  with  his  vengeance,  he  dtsisted  for  a  season. 

It  happened  at  the  end  of  the  third  year  of  their  marriage,  that  her 
husband  being  unhappily  murdered  ofi  his  return  from  Madrid,  whither 
he  had  been  called  by  a  lawsuit,  she  was  left  without  protection,  and 
from  the  failure  of  the  cause  much  straitened,  besides,  in  her  means  of 
living.  This  time,  therefore,  the  knight  thought  favourable  to  renew 
his  importunities,  and  neither  respecting  the  sacredness  of  her  grief, 
nor  her  forlorn  state,  he  molested  her  so  continually,  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  love  of  her  fatherless  child,  she  would  have  been  content 
to  die.  For  if  the  knight  was  odious  before,  he  was  now  thrice  hate- 
ful from  his  undisguised  brutality,  and  above  all  execrable  in  her  eyes, 
from  a  suspicion  that  he  had  procured  the  assassination  of  her  dear 
husband.  She  was  obliged,  however,  to  confine  this  belief  to  her  own 
bosom,  for  her  persecutor  was  rich  and  powerful,  and  wanted  not  the 
means,  and  scarcely  the  will,  to  crush  her.  Many  families  had  thus 
suffered  by  his  malignity,  and  therefore  she  only  awaited  the  arrange- 
ment of  certain  private  affairs  to  withdraw  secretly,  with  her  scanty 
maintenance,  into  some  remote  village.  There  she  hoped  to  h&  free 
from  her  inhuman  suitor  ;  but  she  was  delivered  from  this  trouble  in 
the  meantime  by  his  death,  yet  in  so  terrible  a  manner,  as  made  it 
more  grievous  to  her  than  his  life  had  ever  been. 

It  wanted,  at  this  event,  but  a  few  days  of  the  time  when  the  lady 
proposed  to  remove  to  her  country-lodging,  taking  with  her  a  maid 
who  was  called  Maria  ;  for  since  the  reduction  of  her  fortune,  she  had 
retained  but  this  one  servant.  Now,  it  happened  that  this  woman 
going  one  day  to  her  lady's  closet,  which  was  in  her  bedchamber, — ■ 
so  soon  as  she  had  opened  the  door,  there  tumbled  forward  the  dead 
body  of  a  man  ;  and  the  police  being  summoned  by  her  shrieks,  they 
soon  recognised  the  corpse  to  be  that  of  the  old  Castilian  knight, 
though  the  countenance  was  so  blackened  and  disfigured  as  to  seem 
scarcely  human.  It  was  sufficiently  evident  that  he  had  perished  by 
poison  ;  whereupon  the  unhappy  lady,  being  interrogated,  was  unable 
to  give  any  account  of  the  matter  ;  and  in  spite  of  her  fair  reputation, 
and  although  she  appealed  to  God  in  behalf  of  her  innocence,  she  was 
thrown  into  the  common  gaol  along  with  other  reputed  murderers. 

The  criminal  addresses  of  the  deceased  knight  being  generally 
known,  many  persons  who  believed  in  her  guilt  still  pitied  her,  and 
excused  the  cruelty  of  the  deed  on  account  of  the  persecution  she  had 
suffered  from  that  wicked  man  : — but  these  were  the  most  charitable 
of  her  judges.  The  violent  death  of  her  husband,  which  before  had 
been  only  attributed  to  robbers,  was  now  assigned  by  scandalous  per- 
sons to  her  own  act ;  and  the  whole  province  was  shocked  that  a  lady 
of  her  fair  seeming,  and  of  such  unblemished  character,  should  have 
brought  so  heavy  a  disgrace  upon  her  sex  and  upon  human  nature. 

At  her  trial,  therefore,  the  court  was  crowded  to  excess  ;  and  some 
-few  generous  persons  were  not  without  a  hope  of  her  acquittal  ;  but 
the  same  facts,  as  before,  being  proved  upon  oath,  and  the  lady  still 
producing  no  justification,  but  only  asserting  her  innocence,  there 
remained  no  reasonable  cause  for  doubting  of  her  guilt.  The  public 
advocate  tnen  began  to  plead,  a.*-  his  painfi:    duty  commardef'  him 


6S2  THE  WIDOW  OF  G ALICIA. 

for  her  condemnation  ; — he  urged  the  facts  of  her  acquaintance  and 
bad  terms  witli  the  murdered  knight  ;  and,  moreover,  certain  expres- 
sions of  hatred  which  she  had  been  heard  t^  utter  against  him.  Tha 
very  scene  and  manner  of  his  destruction,  he  said,  spoive  to  her  un 
doubted  prejudice, — the  first  a  private  closet  in  her  own  bedchamber, 
— and  the  last  by  poison,  which  was  likely  to  be  employed  by  a  woman, 
rather  than  any  weapon  of  violence.  Afterwards,  he  interpreted  to  the 
same  conclusion  the  abrupt  flight  of  the  waiting-maid,  who,  like  a 
guilty  and  fearful  accomplice,  had  disappeared  whenever  her  mistress 
was  arrested  ;  and.  finally,  he  recalled  the  still  mysterious  fate  of  her 
late  husband  ;  so  that  all  who  heard  him  began  to  bend  their  brows 
solemnly,  and  some  reproachfully,  on  the  unhappy  object  of  his  dis- 
course. Still  she  upheld  herself,  firmly  and  calmly,  only  from  time  to 
time  lifting  her  eyes  towards  heaven  ;  but  when  she  heard  the  dt-ath 
of  her  dear  husband  touched  upon,  and  in  a  manner  that  laid  his  blood 
to  her  charge,  she  stood  forward,  and  placing  her  right  hand  on  the 
head  of  her  son,  cried  :  — 

"  So  witness  God,  if  ever  I  shed  his  father's  blood,  so  may  this,  his 
dear  child,  shed  mine  in  vengeance." 

Then  sinking  down  from  exhaustion,  and  the  child  weeping  bitterly 
over  her,  the  beholders  were  again  touched  with  compassion,  almost 
to  the  doubting  of  her  guilt  ;  but  the  evidence  being  so  strong  against 
her,  she  was  immediately  condemned  by  the  Court. 

It  was  the  custom  in  those  days  for  a  woman  who  had  committed 
murder  to  be  first  strangled  by  the  hangman,  and  then  burnt  to  ashes 
in  the  midst  of  the  market-place  ;  but  before  this  horrible  sentence 
could  be  pronounced  on  the  lady,  a  fresh  witness  was  moved  by  the 
grace  of  God  to  come  forward  m  her  behalf  This  was  the  waiting- 
woman,  Maria,  who  hitherto  had  remained  disguised  in  the  body  of 
the  Court  ;  but  now  being  touched  with  remorse  at  her  lady's  unmerited 
distresses,  she  stood  up  on  one  of  the  benches,  and  called  out  earnestly 
to  be  allov.ed  to  make  her  confession.  She  then  related,  that  she  her- 
selt  had  been  prevailed  upon,  by  several  great  sums  of  money,  and  still 
more  by  the  artful  and  seducing  promises  of  the  dead  knight,  \£ 
secrete  him  in  a  closet  in  her  lady's  chamber  ;  but  that  of  the  cause  of 
his  death  she  knew  nothing,  except  that  upon  a  shelf  she  had  placed 
some  sweet  cakes,  mixed  with  arsenic,  to  poison  the  rats,  and  that  the 
knight,  being  rather  gluttonous,  might  have  eaten  of  them  in  the  dark, 
and  so  died. 

At  .this  probable  explanation,  the  people  all  shouted  one  shout,  and 
the  lady's  innocence  being  acknowledged,  the  sentence  was  ordered  to 
be  reversed  ;  but  she  reviving  a  little  at  the  noise,  and  being  told  of  this 
providence,  only  clasped  her  hands  ;  and  then,  in  a  few  words,  com- 
mending her  son  to  the  guardianship  of  good  men,  and  saying  that  she 
could  never  survive  the  shame  of  her  unworthy  reproach^  she  ended 
with  a  deep  sigh,  and  expired  upon  the  spot. 


THE  GOLDEIV  CUP  AND  THE  DISH  OF  STL  VER. 

EVERY  one  knows  what  a  dog's  life  the  miserable  Jews  lead  all 
over  the  world,  but  especially  amongst  the  Turks,  who  plunder 
them  of  their  riches,  and  slay  them  on  the  most  frivolous  pretences. 
Thus,  if  they  acquire  any  wealth,  they  are  obliged  to  hide  it  in  holes 
and  corners,  and  to  snatch  their  scanty  enjoyments  by  stealth,  in  re- 
compense of  the  buffets  and  contumely  of  their  turbaned  oppressors. 

In  this  manner  lived  Yussuf,  a  Hebrew  of  great  wealth  and  wisdom, 
but,  outwardly,  a  poor  beggarly  druggist,  inhabiting,  with  his  wife, 
Anna,  one  of  the  meanest  houses  in  Constantinople.  The  curse  of  his 
nation  had  often  fallen  bitterly  upon  his  head  ;  his  great  skill  in  medi- 
cine procuring  him  some  uncertain  favour  from  the  Turks,  but  on  the 
failure  of  his  remedies,  a  tenfold  proportion  of  ill-usage  and  contempt. 
In  such  cases,  a  hundred  blows  on  the  soles  of  his  feet  were  his 
Cnmnion  payment  ;  whereas  on  the  happiest  cures,  he  was  often  dis- 
missed with  empty  hands  and  some  epithet  of  disgrace. 

As  he  was  sitting  one  day  at  his  humble  door,  thinking  over  these 
miseries,  a  janizary  came  up  to  him,  and  commanded  Yussuf  to  go 
with  him  to  his  Aga  or  captain,  whose  palace  was  close  at  hand. 
Yussufs  gold  immediately  weighed  heavy  at  his  heart,  as  the  cause  of 
this  summons  ;  however,  he  arose  obediently,  and  followed  the  soldier 
to  the  Aga,  who  was  sitting  cross-legged  on  a  handsome  carpet,  with 
his  long  pipe  in  his  mouth.  The  Jew,  casting  himself  on  his  knees, 
with  his  tace  to  the  floor,  began,  like  his  brethren,  to  plead  poverty  in 
excuse  for  the  shabbiness  of  his  appearance  ;  but  the  Aga,  interrupting 
him,  proceeded  to  compliment  him  in  a  flattering  strain  on  his  reputa- 
tion for  wisdom,  which  he  said  had  made  him  desirous  of  his  conversa- 
tion. He  then  ordered  the  banquet  to  be  brought  in  ;  whereupon  the 
slaves  put  down  before  them  some  wine,  in  a  golden  cup,  and  some  pork, 
in  a  dish  of  silver  ;  both  of  which  were  forbidden  things,  and  therefore 
made  the  Jew  wonder  very  much  at  such  an  entertainment.  The  Aga 
then  pointing  to  the  refreshments  addressed  him  as  follows  : — 

"  Yussuf,  they  say  you  are  a  very  wise  and  learned  man,  and  have 
studied  deeper  than  any  one  the  mysteries  of  nature.  I  have  sent 
for  you,  therefore,  to  resolve  me  on  certain  doubts  concerning  this  flesh, 
and  this  liquor  before  us  ;  the  pork  being  as  abominable  to  your 
relii^ion,  as  the  wine  is  unto  ours.  But  I  am  especially  curious  to  know 
the  reasons  why  your  prophet  should  have  forbidden  a  meat,  which  by 
report  of  the  Christians  is  both  savoury  and  wholesome  ;  wherefore  I 
will  have  you  to  proceed  first  with  that  argument  ;  and,  in  order  that 
you  may  not  discuss  it  negligently,  I  am  resolved  in  case  you  fail  to 
justify  the  prohibition,  that  you  shall  empty  the  silver  dish  before  yoa 
stir  from  the  place.  Nevertheless,  to  show  you  that  I  am  equally 
candid,  I  promise,  if  you  shall  thereafter  prove  to  me  the  unreasonable 
ress  of  the  injunction  against  wine,  I  will  drink  off  this  golden  goblet 
as  frankly  before  we  part." 

The  terrified  Jew  understood  very  readily  the  purpose  of  this  trial  \ 
however,  after  a  secret  prayer  to  Moses,  he  began  in  the  best  way  he 
could  to  plead  against  the  abominable  dish  that  was  steaming  undet 


684        THE  GOLDEN  CUP  AND  THE  DISH  OF  SILVER. 

his  nostrils.  He  failed,  notwithstanding,  to  convince  the  sceptical  Aga, 
who,  thertfore,  commanded  him  to  eat  up  the  pork,  and  then  begin 
his  disciHirse  in  favour  of  the  wine. 

The  sad  Jew,  at  this  order,  endeavoured  to  move  the  obdurate  Turk 
by  his  tears  ;  but  the  Aga  was  resolute,  and  drawing  his  crooked 
cimetar,  declared,  "that  if  Yussuf  did  not  instantly  fall  to,  he  would 
smite  his  head  from  his  shoulders." 

It  was  time,  at  this  threit,  for  Yussuf  to  commend  his  soul  unto 
heaven,  for  in  Turkey  the  Jews  wear  their  heads  very  loosely  ;  how- 
ever, by  dint  of  fresh  tears  and  supplications  he  obtained  a  respite  of 
three  days,  to  consider  if  he  could  not  bring  forward  any  further  argu- 
ments. 

As  soon  as  the  audience  was  over,  Yussuf  returned  disconsolately 
to  his  house,  and  informed  his  wife  Anna  of  what  had  passed  between 
him  and  the  Aga.  The  poor  woman  foresaw  clearly  how  the  matter 
would  end  ;  for  it  was  aimed  only  at  the  confiscation  of  their  riches. 
She  advised  Yussuf,  therefore,  instead  of  racking  his  wits  for  fresh 
arguments,  to  carry  a  bag  of  gold  to  the  Aga,  who  condescended  to 
receive  his  reasons  ;  and  after  another  brief  discourse,  to  grant  him  a 
respite  of  three  days  longer.  In  the  same  manner,  Yussuf  procured 
a  further  interval,  but  somewhat  dearer  ;  so  that  in  despair  at  losing 
his  monev  at  this  rate,  he  returned  for  the  fourth  time  to  the  palace. 

The  Aga  and  Yussuf  being  seated  as  before,  with  the  mess  of  pork 
and  the  wine  between  them',  the  Turk  asked,  if  he  hnd  brou-ht  any 
fresh  arguments.  The  doctor  replied,  "Alas  !  he  had  already  discussed 
the  subject  so  often,  that  his  reasons  were  quite  exhausted  ;"  where- 
upon the  flashing  cimetar  leaping  quickly  out  of  its  scabbard,  the 
trembling  Hebrew  plucked  the  loathsome  dish  towards  him,  and  with 
many  struggles  began  to  eat. 

It  cost  him  a  thousand  wry  faces  to  swallow  the  first  morsel ;  and 
from  the  laughter  that  came  from  behind  a  silken  screen,  they  were 
observed  by  more  mockers  besides  the  Aga,  who  took  such  a  cruel 
pleasure  in  the  amusement  of  his  women,  that  Yussuf  was  compelled 
to  proceed  even  to  the  licking  of  the  dish.  He  was  then  suffered  to 
depart,  without  wasting  any  logic  upon  the  cup  of  wine,  which  after 
his  loathsome  meal  he  would  have  been  quite  happy  to  discuss. 

I  guess  not  how  the  Jew  consoled  himself  besides  for  his  involuntary 
sin,  but  he  bitterly  cursed  the  cruel  Aga  and  all  his  wives,  who  could 
not  amuse  their  indolent  lives  with  their  dancing-girls  and  tale-tellers, 
but  made  merry  at  the  expense  of  his  soul.  His  wife  joined  hearfly 
in  his  imprecations;  and  both  putting  ashes  on  their  heads,  they 
mourned  and  cursed  together  till  the  sunset.  There  came  no  janizary, 
however,  on  the  morrow,  as  they  expected  ;  but  on  the  eighth  day, 
Yussuf  was  summoned  again  to  the  Aga. 

The  Jew  at  this  message  began  to  weep,  making  sure,  in  his  mind, 
that  a  fresh  dish  of  pork  was  prepared  for  him  ;  however,  he  repaired 
obediently  to  the  palace,  where  he  was  told,  that  the  favourite  lady  of 
the  harem  was  indisposed,  and  the  Aga  commanded  him  to  prescribe 
for  her.  Now,  the  Turks  are  very  jealous  of  their  mistresses,  and 
disdain,  especially,  to  expose  them  to  the  eyes  of  infidels,  of  whom  the 
Jews  are  held  the  most  vile  ;— wherefore,  when  Yussuf  begged  to  see 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  SEVILLE.  68$ 

bis  patient,  she  was  allowed  to  be  brought  forth  only  in  a  long  white 
veil,  that  reached  down  to  her  feet.  The  Aga,  notwithstanding  the 
folly  of  such  a  proceeding,  forbade  her  veil  to  be  lifted  ;  neither  would 
he  permit  the  Jew  to  converse  with  her,  but  commanded  him  on  pain 
of  death  to  return  home  and  prepare  his  medicines. 

The  wretched  doctor,  groaning  all  the  way,  went  back  to  his  house, 
without  wasting  a  thought  on  what  drugs  he  should  administer  on  so 
hopeless  a  case  ;  but  considering,  instead,  the  surgical  practice  of  the 
Aga,  which  separated  so  many  necks.  However,  he  told  his  wife  of 
the  new  jeopardy  he  was  placed  in  for  the  Moorish  Jezebel. 

"A  curse  take  her  !"  said  Anna;  "give  her  a  dose  of  poison,  and 
let  her  perish  before  his  eyes." 

"Nay,"  answered  the  Jew,  "that  will  be  to  pluck  the  sword  down 
upon  our  own  heads  ;  nevertheless,  I  will  che.nt  the  infidel's  concubine 
with  some  wine,  which  is  equally  damnable  to  their  souls  ;  and  may 
God  visit  upon  their  conscience  the  misery  they  have  enforced  upon 
mine  !  " 

In  this  bitter  mood,  going  to  a  filthy  hole  in  the  floor,  he  drew  out 
a  flask  of  schiraz  ;  and  bestowing  as  many  Hebrew  curses  on  the 
liquor  as  the  Mussulmans  are  wont  to  utter  of  blessings  over  their 
medicines,  he  filled  up  some  physic  bottles,  and  repaired  with  them 
to  the  palace. 

And  now  let  the  generous  virtues  of  good  wine  be  duly  lauded  for 
the  happy  sequel  ! 

The  illness  of  the  favourite,  being  merely  a  languor  and  melancholy, 
proceeding  from  the  voluptuous  indolence  of  her  life,  the  draughts  of 
Yussuf  soon  dissipated  her  chagrin,  in  such  a  miraculous  manner,  that 
she  sang  and  danced  more  gaily  than  any  of  her  slaves.  The  Aga, 
therefore,  instead  of  beheading  Yussuf,  returned  to  him  all  the  purses 
of  gold  he  had  taken  ;  to  which  the  grateful  lady,  besides,  added  a 
valuable  ruby  ;  and,  thenceforward,  when  she  was  ill,  would  have  none 
but  the  Jewish  physician.  • 

Thus,  Yussuf  saved  both  his  head  and  his  money  ;  and,  besides, 
convinced  the  Aga  of  the  virtues  of  good  wine  ;  so  that  the  golden  cup 
was  finally  emptied,  as  well  as  the  disH^  of  silver. 


T&E  TRAGEDY  OF  SEVILLE, 

EVERY  one,  in  Seville,  has  heard  of  the  famous  robber  Bazardo; 
but,  as  some  may  be  ignorant  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  in- 
cidents of  his  career,  I  propose  to  relate  a  part  of  his  history  as  it  is 
attested  in  the  criminal  records  of  that  city. 

This  wicked  man  was  born  in  the  fair  city  of  Cadiz,  and  of  very 
obscure  parentage  ;  but  the  time  which  I  mean  to  speak  of  is,  when  he 
returned  to  Seville,  after  being  some  years  absent  in  the  Western 
Indies,  and  with  a  fortune  which,  whether  justly  or  unjustly  acquired, 
sufficed  to  afford  him  the  rank  and  apparel  of  a  gentleman. 

It  was  then,  as  he  strolled  up  one  of  the  by-streets,  a  few  days  afteJ 
his  arrival,  that  he  was  attracted  by  a  very  poor  woman,  gaiing  mos/ 


W.  THE   TRAGEDY  OF  SEVILLE. 

anxiously  and  eagerly  at  a  shop-window.  She  was  lean  and  famished, 
and  clad  in  very  rags,  and  made  altogether  so  miserable  an  appearance, 
that  even  a  robber,  with  the  least  grace  of  charuy  in  his  heart,  would 
have  instantly  relieved  her  with  an  alms.  The  robber,  however,  con- 
tented himself  with  observing  her  motions  at  a  distance,  till,  at  last, 
casting  a  fearful  glance  behind  her,  the  poor  famished  wretch  suddenly 
dashed  her  withered  arm  throu;^'h  a  pane  of  the  window,  and  made  ofif 
•with  a  small  coarse  loaf.  But  whether  from  the  feebleness  of  hun;4er 
or  affright,  she  ran  so  slowly,  it  cost  Bazardo  but  a  moment's  pursuit 
to  overtake  her,  and  seizing  her  by  the  arm,  he  began,  thief  as  he  was^ 
to  upbraid  her  for  making  so  free  with  another's  property. 

The  poor  woman  made  no  reply,  but  uttered  a  short  shrill  scream, 
and  threw  the  loaf,  unperceived,  through  a  little  casement,  and  tlien 
turning  a  face  full  of  hunger  and  fear,  besought  Bazardo,  for  charity's 
sake  and  the  love  of  God,  to  let  her  go  free.  She. was  no  daily  pilferer, 
she  told  him,  but  a  distressed  woman,  who  could  relate  to  him  a  story, 
which,  if  it  did  not  break  her  own  heart  in  the  utterance,  must  needs 
command  his  pity.  But  he  was  no  way  moved  by  her  appeal  ;  and 
the  baker  coming  up  and  insisting  on  the  restoration  of  tlie  loaf,  to 
which  she  made  no  answer  but  by  her  tears,  they  began  to  drag  her 
away  between  them,  and  with  as  much  violence  as  if  she  had  been  no 
such  skeleton  as  she  appeared. 

By  this  time  a  crowd  had  assembled,  and  beholding  this 
inhumanity,  and  learning  besides  the  trifling  amount  of  the  theft, 
they  bestowed  a  thousand  curses,  and  some  blows  too,  on  Bazardo 
and  the  baker.  These  hard-hearted  men,  however,  maintamed 
their  hold  ;  and  the  office  of  police  being  close  by,  the  poor  wretched 
creature  was  delivered  to  the  guard,  and  as  the  magistrates  were  then 
sitting,  the  cause  was  presently  examined. 

During  the  accusation  of  Bazardo  the  poor  woman  stood  utterly 
silent,  till  coming  to  speak  of  her  abusive  speech,  and  of  the  resistance 
which  she  had  made  to  her  capture,  she  suddenly  interrupted  him,  and 
lifting  up  her  shrivelled  hands  and  arms  towards  heaven,  inquired  if 
those  poor  bones,  which  had  not  strength  enough  to  work  for  her  live- 
lihood, were  likely  weapons  for  the  mjury  of  any  human  creature. 

At  this  pathetic  appeal  there  was  a  general  murmur  of  indignation 
against  the  accuser,  and  the  charge  being  ended,  she  was  advised  that 
as  only  one  witness  had  deposed  against  her,  she  could  not  be  con- 
victed, except  upon  her  own  confession.  But  she,  scorning  to  shame 
the  truth,  or  to  wrong  even  her  accuser,  for  the  people  were  ready  to 
believe  that  he  had  impeached  her  falsely,  freely  admitted  the  theft, 
adding,  that  under  the  like  necessity  she  must  needs  sin  again  ;  and 
with  that,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  she  sobbed  out,  "  My  children  ! 
—Alas  !  for  my  poc^r  children  !  " 

At  this  exclamation  the  judge  even  could  not  contain  his  tears,  but 
told  her  with  a  broken  voice  that  he  would  hear  nothing  further  to  her 
own  prejudice  ;  expressing,  moreover,  his  regret,  that  the  world  pos- 
sessed so  little  charity,  as  not  to  have  prevented  the  mournful  crime 
wiiich  she  had  committed.  Then,  desiring  to  know  more  particulars 
^  her  condition,  she  gratefully  thanked  him,  and  imploring  the  bless* 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  SEVILLE.  687 

ing  of  God  upon  all  those  who  had  shown  so  much  sweet  charity  on 
her  behr.lf,  she  began  to  relate  her  melancholy  history. 

"  She  was  the  daughter,  she  said,  of  a  wealthy  merchant  at  Cadiz, 
and  h^d  been  instructed  in  all  accomplishments  that  belong  to  a  lady. 
That  having  listened  unhappily  to  the  flatteries  of  an  officer  in  the 
King's  guard,  she  had  married  him,  and  bestowed  upon  him  all  her 
fortune  ;  but  that  instead  of  being  grateful  for  these  benefits,  he  had 
expended  her  property  in  riotous  living  ;  and,  finally,  deserted  her  with 
her  two  children,  to  the  care  of  Him  that  feedeth  the  ravens."  Here 
her  voice  becoming  more  tremulous,  and  almost  inaudible,  she  excused 
herself,  saying,  that  for  two  whole  days  she  had  not  tasted  of  any  food, 
and  must  needs  have  perished,  but  that  by  God's  good  grace  she  had 
then  caught  a  rat,  which  served  her,  loathsome  as  it  was,  for  a  meal. 

Hereupon,  the  judge  was  exceedingly  shocked,  and  immediately 
gave  orders  for  some  refreshments  ;  but  she  declined  to  touch  them, 
saying,  that  whilst  her  children  were  in  want  she  could  not  eat  ;  but 
with  his  oracious  permission  would  only  rest  her  head  upon  her  hands. 
And  so  she  sat  down  in  silence,  whilst  all  the  people  contemplated 
her  with  pity,  still  beautiful  in  her  misery,  and  reduced  from  a  luxurious 
condiiion  to  so  dreadful  an  extremity. 

In  the  meantime,  the  officers  were  despatched  by  the  judge's  direc- 
tion to  bring  hither  the  children  :  and  after  resting  for  a  little  while, 
the 'unfortunate  lady  resumed  her  story.  "  For  two  years,  she  said,  she 
had  maintained  herself  and  her  little  ones  by  her  skill  in  embroidery 
and  other  works  of  art  ;  but  afterwards,  falling  ill  from  her  over-exer- 
tion and  concealed  sorrows,  her  strength  had  deserted  her  ;  and  latterly, 
having  no  other  resource,  she  had  been  obliged  to  sell  her  raiment. 
At  last,  she  had  nothing  left  but  the  poor  rays  she  at  present  wore,  be- 
sides her  wedding  ring  ;  and  that  she  would  sooner  die  than  part  with. 
For  I  still  live,"  she  added,  "  in  the  hope  of  my  husband's  return 
.to  me, — and  then,  may  God  forgive  thee,  Bazardo,  as  Iwill  forgive 
thee,  for  all  this  cruel  misery." 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  her  accuser  turned  instantly  to  the 
complexion  of  marble,  and  he  would  fain  have  made  his  escape  from 
the  court  ;  but  the  crowd  pressing  upon  him,  as  if  willing  that  he 
should  hear  the  utmost  of  a  misery  for  which  he  had  shown  so  little 
compassion,  he  was  compelled  to  remain  in  his  place.  He  flattered 
himself,  notwithstanding,  that  by  reason  of  the  alteration  in  his  features, 
from  his  living  in  the  Indies,  he  should  still  be  unrecognised  by  the 
object  of  his  cruelty  ;  whereas,  the  captain  of  the  vessel  which  had 
brought  him  over  was  at  that  moment  present  ;  and  wondering  that 
his  ship  had  come  safely  with  so  wicked  a  wretch  on  board,  he 
instantly  denounced  Bazardo  by  name,  and  pointed  him  out  to  the 
indignation  of  the  people. 

At  this  discovery  there  was  a  sudden  movement  amongst  the  crowd  ; 
and  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  the  judge,  and  of  the  entreaties  of  the 
wretched  lady  herself,  the  robber  would  have  been  torn  into  as  many 
pieces  as  there  vere  persons  in  the  court,  except  for  the  timely  inter- 
position of  the  guard. 

In  the  meantime,  the  officers  who  had  been  sent  for  the  children 
had  entered  by  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall,  and  making  way  towardi 


(S8  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  SEVILLE. 

the  judge,  and  depositing  somewhat  upon  the  table,  before  it  could  b« 
perceived  what  it  was,  they  covered  it  over  with  a  coarse  Hnen  cloth. 
Afterwards,  being  interrogated,  they  declared,  that  having  proceeded 
whither  they  had  been  directed,  they  heard  sounds  of  moaning,  and 
sobbmg,  and  lamentations,  in  a  child's  voice.  That  entering  upon 
this,  and  beholding  one  child  bending  over  another  and  weeping 
bitterly,  they  supposed  the  latter  to  have  died  of  hunger  ;  but  on  goin;^ 
nearer,  they  discovered  that  it  had  a  large  wound  on  the  left  side,  and 
that  it  was  then  warm  and  breathing,  but  was  since  dead.  They 
pointed,  as  they  said  this,  to  the  body  on  the  table,  where  the  blood 
was  now  beginning  to  ooze  visibly  through  the  linen  cloth.  As  for 
the  manner  of  its  being  wounded,  or  the  author,  they  c6uld  give  no 
evidence  ;  not  only  because  the  house  was  otherwise  uninhabited,  but 
that  the  remaining  child  was  so  affrighted,  or  so  stricken  with  grief, 
that  it  could  give  no  account  of  the  occurrence.  His  cries,  indeed,  at 
this  moment,  resounded  from  the  adjoining  corridor  ;  and  the  mother, 
staring  wildly  around  her,  and  beholding  that  which  lay  upon  the  table, 
suddenly  snatched  away  the  cloth,  and  so  exposed  the  body  of  the 
dead  child.  It  was  very  lean  and  famished,  with  a  gaping  wound  on 
Its  left  bosom  ;  from  which  the  blood  trickled  even  to  the  clerk's  desk, 
so  that  the  paper,  which  contained  the  record  of  the  lady's  sorrows, 
was  stained  with  this  new  sad  evidence  of  her  misfortunes. 

The  people  at  this  dreadful  sight  uttered  a  general  moan  of  horror, 
and  the  mother  made  the  whole  court  re-echo  with  her  shrieks ; 
insomuch,  that  some  from  mere  anguish  ran  out  of  the  hall,  whilst 
others  stopped  their  ears  with  their  hands,  her  cries  were  so  long  and 
piercing.  At  last,  when  she  could  scream  no  longer,  but  lay  as  one 
dead,  the  judge  rose  up,  and  commanding  the  other  child  to  be  brought 
in,  and  the  dead  body  to  be  removed  out  of  sight,  he  endeavoured, 
partly  by  soothing,  and  partly  by  threats,  to  draw  forth  the  truth  of 
what  had  been  hitherto  an  incomprehensible  mystery. 

For  a  long  time,  the  poor  child,  being  famished  and  spiritless,  made 
no  answer,  but  only  sobbed  and  trembled,  as  if  his  little  joints  would 
fall  asunder  ;  till  at  last,  being  re-assured  by  the  judge,  and  having 
partaken  of  some  wine,  he  began  to  relate  what  had  happened.  His 
mother,  early  in  the  morning,  had  promised  them  some  bread  ;  but 
being  a  long  time  absent,  and  he  and  his  little  brother  growing  more 
and  more  hungry,  they  lay  down  upon  the  floor  and  wept.  That  whilst 
they  cried,  a  small  loaf — very  small  indeed,  was  thrown  in  at  the  win- 
do.v  ;  and  both  being  almost  famished,  and  both  slrqggling  together  to 
obtain  it,  he  had  unwarily  stabbed  his  little  brother  with  a  knife  which 
he  held  in  his  hand.  And  with  that,  bursting  afresh  into  tears,  he  be- 
soui^ht  the  judge  not  to  hang  him. 

All  this  time,  the  cruel  Bazardo  remained  unmoved  ;  and  the  judg^ 
reproaching  him  in  the  sternest  language,  ordered  him  to  be  imprison- 
ed. He  tlien  lamented  afresh,  that  the  dearth  of  Christian  charity  ana 
benevolence  was  accountable  for  such  horrors  as  they  had  witnessed  ; 
and  immediately  the  people,  as  if  by  consent,  be-an  to  offer  money, 
and  some  their  purses,  to  the  unfortunate  lady.  But  she,  heedless  of 
Miem  all,  and  exclaiming  that  she  would  sell  her  dead  child  for  ao 


THE  LAD Y  IN  LOVE  WITH  ROMANCE,  689 

money,  rushed  out  into  the  street ;  and  there  repeating  the  same  wordsi, 
and  at  last  sitting  down,  she  expired  a  martyr  to  hunger  and  grief,  on 
the  steps  of  her  own  dwelHng. 


THE  LADY  IN  LOVE    WITH  ROMANCE. 

MANY  persons  in  Castille  remember  the  old  Knight  Pedro  de 
Peubia, — surnamed  The  Gross.  In  his  person,  he  was  enun- 
ently  large  and  vulgar,  with  a  most  brutal  countenance;  and  in  his 
-disposition  so  coarse  and  gluttonous,  and  withal  so  great  a  drunkard, 
that  if  one  could  believe  in  a  transmigration  of  beasts,  the  spirit  of  a 
swine  had  passed  into  this  man's  body,  for  the  discredit  of  human 
nature. 

Now,  truly,  this  was  a  proper  suitor  for  the  Lady  Blanche,  who,  be- 
sides the  comeliness  of  lur  person,  was  adorned  with  all  those  accom- 
plishments which  become  a  gentlewom.in  :  she  was  moreover  gifted 
with  a  most  excellent  wit  ;  so  that  she  not  only  played  on  the  guitar 
and  various  musical  instruments  to  admiration,  but  also  she  enriched 
the  melody  with  most  beautiful  verses  of  her  own  composition.  Her 
father,  a  great  man,  and  very  proud  besides  of  the  nobility  of  his  blood, 
yas  not  insensible  of  these  her  rare  merits,  but  declaring  that  so  pre- 
cious a  jewel  deserved  to  be  richly  set  in  gold,  and  that  rather  than 
marry  her  below  her  estate  he  would  devot«  her  to  a  life  of  perpetual 
celibacy,  he  watched  h -r  with  the  vigilance  of  an  Argus.  To  do  them 
justice,  the  young  gentlemen  of  the  prt)vince  omitted  no  stratagem  to 
gain  access  to  her  presence,  but  all  their  attempts  were  as  vain  as  the 
grasping  at  water  ;  and  at  length  her  parent  becoming  more  and  more 
jealous  of  her  admirers,  she  was  confined  to  the  solitude  of  her  own 
chamber. 

It  was  in  this  irksome  seclusion  that,  reading  constantly  in  novels 
and  such  woiks  which  refer  to  the  ages  of  chivalry,  she  became  sud- 
denly smitten  with  such  a  new  passion  for  the  romantic,  talking  con- 
tinually of  knights  and  squires,  and  stratagems  of  love  and  war,  that 
her  father,  doubting  whither  such  a  madness  might  tend,  gave  orders 
that  all  books  should  be  removed  from  her  chamber. 

It  was  a  grievous  thing  to  think  of  that  young  lady,  cheerful  and 
beautiful  as  the  day,  confined  thus  like  a  wild  bird  to  an  unnatural 
cage,  and  deprived  of  the  common  delights  of  liberty  and  nature.  At 
length,  that  old  Knight  of  Castille,  coming,  not  with  rope-ladders,  nor 
disguised  in  woman's  apparel,  like  some  adventurers,  but  with  a  costly 
equipage,  and  a  most  golden  reputation,  he  was  permitted  to  lay  his 
mrge  person  at  her  feet,  and,  contrary  to  all  expectation,  was  regarded 
with  an  eye  of  favour. 

At  the  first  rep  irt  of  his  reception,  no  one  could  sufficiently  marvel 
how,  in  a  man  of  such  a  countenance,  she  could  behold  any  similarity 
with  those  brave  and  comely  young  cavaliers,  who,  it  was  thought,  must 
have  risen  out  of  their  graves  in  Palestine  to  behold  such  a  wooer  ;  b«t 
when  they  called  to  mind  her  grievous  captivity,  and  how  hopeless  it 
was  that  she  could  be  freed  by  any  artifice  from  the  vigilance  of  het 

2  X 


too  THE  LADY  IN  LOVE  WITH  ROMANCE. 

father,  they  almost  forgave  her  that  she  was  ready  to  obtain  her  fre© 
dom  by  bestowing  her  hand  on  a  first  cousin  to  the  devil.  A  certain 
gallant  gentleman,  however,  who  was  named  Castello,  was  so  offended 
by  the  news,  that  he  would  have  slain  the  Knight,  without  any  concern 
for  the  consequences  to  himself;  but  the  Lady  Blanche,  hearing  of  his 
design,  made  shift  to  send  him  a  message,  that  by  the  same  blow  he 
would  wound  her  quiet  for  ever. 

In  the  meantime  her  father  was  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  so  rich 
a  son-in-law  as  the  Knight  ;  for  he  was  one  of  those  parents,  that  would 
bestow  their  children  upon  Midas  himself,  notwithstanding  that  they 
should  be  turned  into  sordid  gold  at  the  first  embrace.  In  a  transport 
of  joy,  therefore,  he  made  an  unusual  present  of  valuable  jewels  to  his 
daughter,  and  told  her  withal,  that  in  any  reasonable  request  he  would 
instantly  indulge  her.  This  liberal  promise  astonished  Blanche  not  a 
little  ;  but  after  a  moment's  musing  she  made  answer. 

"  You  know,  sir,"  she  said,  "  my  passion  for  romance,  and  how 
heartily  I  despise  the  fashion  of  these  degenerate  days,  when  every 
thing  is  performed  in  a  dull  formal  manner,  and  the  occurrence  of  to-day 
is  but  a  pattern  for  the  morrow.  There  is  nothing  done  now  so  ro- 
mantically as  in  those  delightful  times,  when  you  could  not  divine,  in 
one  hour,  the  fate  that  should  befal  you  in  the  next,  as  you  may  read 
of  in  those  delicious  works  of  which  you  have  so  cruelly  deprived  m  V 
I  beg,  therefore,  as  I  have  so  dutifully  consulted  your  satisfaction  in 
the  choice  of  a  husband,  that  you  will  so  far  indulge  me,  as  to  leave 
the  manner  of  our  marriage  to  my  own  discretion,  which  is,  that  it  may 
be  on  the  model  of  that  in  the  history  of  Donna  Eleanora,  in  which 
novel,  if  you  remember,  the  lady  being  confined  by  her  father  as  I  am, 
contrives  to  conceal  a  lover  in  her  closet,  and  making  their  escape  to- 
gether by  a  rope-ladder,  they  are  happily  united  in  marriage." 

"  Now,  by  the  Holy  Virgin  !"  replied  her  father,  "  this  thing  shall 
never  be  ;"  and  foreseeing  a  thousand  difficulties,  and  above  all  that 
the  Knight  would  be  exceeding  adverse  to  his  part  in  the  drama,  he 
repented  a  thousand  times  over  of  the  books  which  had  filled  her  with 
such  preposterous  fancies.  The  lady,  notwithstanding,  was  resolute  ; 
and  declaring  that  otherwise  she  would  kill  herself  rather  than  be 
crossed  in  her  will,  the  old  miser  reluctantly  acceded  to  her  scheme. 
Accordingly  it  was  concerted  that  the  next  evening,  at  dusk,  the 
Knight  should  come  and  play  his  serenade  under  her  lattice,  where- 
upon, hearing  his  most  ravishing  music,  she  was  to  let  fall  a  ladder  of 
ropes,  and  so  admit  him  to  her  chamber  ;  her  father,  moreover, 
making  his  nightly  rounds,  she  was  to  conceal  her  lover  in  her  closet, 
and  then,  both  descending  by  the  ladder  together,  they  were  to 
take  flight  on  a  pair  of  fleet  horses,  which  should  be  ready  at  the 
garden  gate. 

"  And  now,"  said  she,  "  if  you  fail  me  in  the  smallest  of  these  par- 
ticulars, the  Knight  shall  never  have  of  me  so  much  as  a  ring  may 
embrace,"  and  with  this  injunction  they  severally  awaited  the  com- 
pletion of  their  drama. 

The  next  niLjht,  the  Lady  Blanche  watched  at  her  window,  and  in  dua 
season  the  Knight  came  with  his  twangling  guitar ;  but,  as  if  to  make 
her  sport  of  him  for  the  last  time,  she  affected  to  mistake  his  music. 


THE  LADY  IN  LOVE  WITH  ROMANCh  69I 

^Ah!"  she  cried,  "  here  is  a  goodly  serenade  to  sing  one  awake 
with  ;  I  prithee  go  away  a  mile  hence,  with  thy  execrable  voice,  or  I 
will  have  thee  answered  with  an  arquebuss." 

All  this  time  the  Knight  fretted  himself  into  a  violent  rage,  stamping 
and  blaspheming  all  the  blessed  saints  ;  but  when  he  heard  mention 
of  the  arquebuss,  he  made  a  motion  to  run  away,  which  constrained 
the  lady  to  recal  him,  and  to  cast  him  down  the  ladder  without  any 
further  ado.  It  was  a  perilous  and  painful  journey  for  him,  you  may 
be  sure,  to  climb  up  to  a  single  story  ;  but  at  length  with  great  labour 
he  clambered  into  the  balcony,  and  in  a  humour  that  went  nigh  to  mar 
the  most  charming  romance  that  was  ever  invented.  In  short,  he 
vowed  not  to  stir  a  step  further  in  the  plot  :  but  Blanche,  telling  him 
that  for  this  first  and  last  time  he  must  needs  fulfil  her  will,  which 
would  so  speedily  be  resolved  into  his  own  ;  and  seducing  him  besides 
with  some  little  tokens  of  endearment,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  locked 
up  in  her  closet. 

The  lady  then  laid  herself  down  in  bed,  and  her  father  knocking  at 
the  door  soon  after,  she  called  out  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  enter. 
He  came  in  then,  very  gravely,  with  a  dark  lantern,  and  asking  if  his 
daughter  was  asleep,  she  replied  that  she  was  just  on  the  skirts  of  a 
dose. 

"  Ah,"  quoth  he,  after  bidding  her  a  good  night,  "  am  I  not  a  good 
father  to'humour  thee  thus,  in  all  thy  fantasies  t  In  verity,  I  have  for- 
gotten the  speech  wliich  I  ought  here  to  deliver;  but  pray  look  well 
to  thy  footing,  Blanche,  and  keep  a  firm  hold  of  the  ladder,  for  else  thou 
wilt  have  a  deadly  fall,  and  I  would  not  have  thee  to  damage  my 
carnations." 

Hereupon  he  departed  ;  and  going  back  to  his  own  chamber,  he 
could  not  help  praising  God  that  this  troublesome  folly  was  so  nearly 
at  an  end.  It  only  remained  for  him  now  to  receive  the  letter,  which 
was  to  be  sent  to  him,  as  if  to  procure  his  fatherly  pardon  and  bene- 
diction ;  and  this,  after  a  space,  being  brought  to  him  by  a  domestic, 
he  read  as  follows  : — 

"  Sir, — If  you  had  treated  me  with  loving-kindness  as  your  daughter, 
I  should  most  joyfully  have  reverenced  you  as  my  father  :  but,  as  you 
have  always  carried  a  purse  where  instead  you  ought  to  have  worn  a 
human  heart,  I  have  made  free  to  bestow  myself  where  that  seat  of 
love  will  not  be  wanting  to  my  happiness.  As  for  the  huge  Knight, 
whom  you  have  thought  fit  to  select  for  my  husband,  you  will  find  him 
locked  up  in  my  closet.  For  the  manner  of  my  departure,  I  would  not 
willingly  have  made  you  a  party  to  your  own  disappointment  ;  but 
that,  from  your  excessive  vigilance,  it  was  hopeless  for  me  to  escape 
except  by  a  ladder  of  your  own  planting.  Necessity  was  the  mother 
of  my  invention,  and  its  father  was  love.  Excepting  this  performance, 
I  was  never  romantic,  and  am  not  now  ;  and,  therefore,  neither  scorn- 
ing your  forgiveness,  nor  yet  despairing  at  its  denial,  I  am  going  to 
settle  into  that  sober  discretion  which  I  hope  is  not  foreign  to  my 
nature.  Farewell. — Before  you  read  this  I  am  in  the  arms  of  my  dear 
Josef  Castello,  a  gentleman  of  such  merit,  that  you  will  reg  lin  mora 
honour  with  such  a  son,  than  you  can  have  lost  in  your  undutifui 
daughter,  *•  BLANCHE." 


692  THE  EIGHTH  SLEEPER  OF  EPHESUS, 

On  readin^:^  this  letter,  the  old  man  fell  into  the  most  ungovemabla 
rage,  and  n-Ieasjn;^-  the  Knight  from  the  closet,  they  reproached  each 
other  so  bitterly,  and  quarrelled  so  long,  as  to  make  it  hopeless  that 
they  could  overtake  the  fugitives,  even  had  they  known  the  direction 
of  their  flight. 

In  this  pleasant  manner,  the  Lady  Blanche  of  Castille  made  hei 
escape  from  nn  almost  hopeless  captivity  and  an  odious  suitor  ;  and 
the  letter  which  she  wrote  is  preserved  unto  this  day,  as  an  evidence 
of  her  wit.  But  her  father  never  forgave  her  elopement ;  and  when 
he  was  stretched  even  at  the  point  of  death,  being  importuned  on  this 
subject,  he  made  answer  that,  "he  could  never  forgive  her,  when  he 
had  never  forgiven  himself  for  her  evasion."  And  with  these  words  on 
his  lips  he  expired. 


THE  EIGHTH  SLEEPER  OF  EPHESUS. 

IT  happened  one  day,  in  a  certain  merry  party  of  Genoese,  that 
their  conversation  fell  at  last  on  the  noted  miracle  of  Ephesus. 
Most  of  the  company  treated  the  story  of  the  Seven  Sleepers  ns  a 
pleasant  fable,  and  many  shrewd  conceits  and  witty  jests  were 
passed  on  the  occasion.  Some  of  the  gentlemen,  inventing  dreams 
for  those  drowsy  personages,  provoked  much  mirth  by  their  allusions  ; 
whilst  others  speculated  satirically  on  the  changes  in  manners,  which 
they  must  have  remarked  after  their  century  of  slumber— all  of  the 
listeners  being  hi^^hly  diverted,  exce[)ting  one  sober  gentleman,  who 
made  a  thousand  wry  faces  at  the  discourse. 

At  length,  taking  an  opportunity  to  address  them,  he  lectured  them 
very  seriously  in  defence  of  the  miracle,  calling  them  so  many  heretics 
and  infidels  ;  and  saying  that  he  saw  no  reason  why  the  history  should 
not  be  believed  as  well  as  any  other  legend  of  the  holy  fathers.  Then, 
after  many  other  curious  arguments,  he  brought  the  example  of  the 
dormouse,  which  sleeps  throu:-;hout  a  whole  winter,  affirming,  that  the 
Ephesian  Christians,  being  laid  in  a  cold  place,  like  a  rocky  cavern  or 
a  sepulchre,  might  reasonably  have  remained  torpid  for  a  hundred 
years. 

His  companions,  feigning  themselves  to  be  converted,  flattered  him 
on  to  proceed  in  a  discourse  which  Avas  so  diverting,  some  of  them 
replenishing  his  glass  continually  with  wine — of  which,  through  talking 
till  he  became  thirsty,  he  partook  very  freely.  At  last  after  uttering  a 
volume  of  follies  and  extravagances,  he  dropped  his  head  upon  the 
table  and  fell  into  a  profound  doze  ;  during  which  interval,  his  merry 
companions  plotted  a  scheme  against  him,  which  they  promised 
themselves  would  afford  some  excellent  sport.  Carrying  him  softly 
therefore  to  an  upper  cliamber,  they  laid  him  upon  an  old  bed  of  state, 
very  quaintly  furnished  and  decorated  in  the  style  of  the  (iothic  ages. 
Thence  repairing  to  a  private  theatre  in  the  house,  which  belonged  to 
their  entertainer,  they  arrayed  themselves  in  some  Bohemian  habits, 
V-ry  grotesque  and  fanciful,  and  disguised  tiicir  faces  with  paint  ;  and 
then  sending  one  of  their  number  to  keep  watch  in  the  bed-chamber, 


THE  EIGHTH  SLEEPER  OF  EPHESUS.  693 

they  awaited  in  this  masquerade  the  awaking  of  the  credulous 
sleeper. 

In  an  hour  or  thereabouts,  the  watcher,  perceivinf^  that  the  other 
began  to  yawn,  ran  instantly  to  his  comrndes,  who  hurr\ing  up  to  the 
chamber  found  their  Ephesian  sitting  upright  in  bed,  and  wondering 
about  him  at  its  uncouth  mouldering  furniture.  One  of  them  then 
speaking  for  the  rest,  began  to  congratulate  him  on  his  revival  out  of 
so  tedious  a  slumber,  persuading  him,  by  help  of  the  others  and  a 
legion  of  lies,  that  he  had  slept  out  a  hundred  years.  He  thereupon 
asking  them  who  they  were,  they  answered  they  were  his  dutiful  great- 
grandchildren, who  had  kept  watch  over  him  by  turns  ever  since  they 
were  juveniles.  In  proof  of  this,  they  showed  him  how  dilapidated  the 
bed  had  become  since  he  had  slept  in  it,  nobody  daring  to  remove  him 
against  the  advice  of  the  physicians. 

"  I  perceive  it  well,"  said  he,  "the  golden  embroideries  are  indeed 
very  much  tarnished — and  the  hangings  in  truth,  as  tattered  as  any 
of  our  old  Genoe::e  standards  thai  were  carried  against  the  Turks. 
These  faded  heraldries  too,  upon  the  head-cloth,  have  been  thoroughly 
fretted  by  the  moths.  I  notice  also,  my  dear  great-grandchildren,  by 
your  garments,  how  much  the  fashions  have  altered  since  my  time, 
though  you  have  kept  our  ancient  language  very  purely,  which  is  owing 
of  course  to  the  invention  of  printing.  The  trees,  likewise,  and  the 
park,  I  observe,  have  much  the  same  appearance  that  I  remember  a 
century  since — but  the  serene  aspect  of  nature  does  not  alter  so  con- 
stantly like  our  frivolous  human  customs." 

Then  recollecting  himself,  he  bef^an  to  make  inquiries  concerning 
his  former  acquaintance,  and  in  particular  about  one  Giacoppo  Rossi 
• — the  same  wag  that  in  his  mummery  was  then  standing  before  him. 
They  told  hint  he  had  been  dead  and  buried,  fourscore  years  ago. 

"  Now,  God  be  praised  !  "  he  answered  ;  "for  that  same  fellow  was 
a  most  pestilent  coxcomb,  who,  pretending  to  be  a  wit,  thought  himself 
licensed  to  ridicule  men  of  worth  and  gravity  with  the  most  shameful 
buffooneries.  The  world  must  have  been  much  comforted  by  his 
death,  and  especially  if  he  took  with  him  his  fellow  mountebank, 
Guidolphi,  who  was  as  laborious  a  jester,  but  duller." 

In  this  strain,  going  through  the  names  of  all  those  that  were  with 
him  in  the  room,  he  praised  God  heartily  that  he  was  rid  of  such  a 
generation  of  knaves  and  fools  and  profane  heretics  ;  and  then 
recollecting  himself  afresh. 

"  Of  course,  my  great-grandchildren,"  said  he,  "  I  am  a  widower  ?" 

His  wife,  who  was  amongst  the  maskers,  at  this  question  began  to 
prick  up  her  ears,  and  answering  for  herself,  she  said, 

"  Alas  !  the  good  woman  that  was  tliy  partner  has  been  dead  these 
seventy-three  years,  and  has  left  thee  desolate." 

At  this  news  the  sleeper  began  to  rub  his  hands  together  very  briskly, 
saying,  "Then  there  was  a  cursed  shrew  gone  ;"  whereupon  his  wife 
striking  him  in  a  fury  on  the  cheek,  she  let  fall  her  mask  through  thi» 
indiscretion  :  and  so  awaked  him  out  of  his  marvellous  dream. 


694 


MADELINE. 

THERE  lived  in  Toledo  a  young  gentleman,  so  passionately  lorei 
by  a  young  lady  of  the  same  city,  that  on  his  sudden  decease 
she  made  a  vow  to  think  of  no  other  ;  and  having  neither  relations  nor 
friends,  except  her  dear  brother  Juan,  who  was  then  abroad,  she  hired 
a  small  house,  and  lived  almost  the  life  of  a  hermit.  Being  young  and 
handsome,  however,  and  possessed  besides  of  a  plentiful  fortune,  she 
was  much  annoyed  by  the  young  gallants  of  the  place,  who  practised 
so  many  stratagems  to  get  speech  of  her,  and  molested  her  so  contin- 
ually, that  to  free  herself  from  their  importunities,  both  now  and  for 
the  future,  she  exchanged  her  dress  for  a  man's  apparel,  and  privately 
■withdrew  to  another  city.  By  favour  of  her  complexion,  which  was  a 
brunette's,  and  the  solitary  manner  of  her  life,  she  was  enabled  to 
preserve  this  disguise  ;  and  it  might  have  been  expected  that  she  would 
have  met  with  few  adventures  ;  but  on  the  contrary,  she  had  barely 
sojourned  a  month  in  this  new  dwelling,  and  in  this  unwonted  garb, 
v'hen  she  was  visited  with  still  sterner  inquietudes  than  in  those  she 
had  so  lately  resigned. 

As  the  beginning  of  her  troubles,  it  happened  one  evening,  in  going 
out  a  little  distance,  that  she  was  delayed  in  the  street  by  seeing  a 
young  woman,  who,  sitting  on  some  stone  steps,  and  with  scanty  rags 
to  cover  her,  was  nursing  a  beautiful  infant  at  her  breast  and  weeping 
bitterly.  At  this  painful  spectacle,  the  charitable  Madelme  immediately 
cast  her  purse  into  the  poor  mother's  lap,  and  the  woman  eagerly 
seizing  the  gift,  and  clasping  it  to  her  bosom,  began  to  implore  the 
blessing  of  God  upon  so  charitable  and  Christian-like  a  gentleman. 
But  an  instant  had  scarcely  been  gone,  when  on  looking  up,  and  more 
completely  discerning  the  countenance  of  her  benefactor,  she  suddenly 
desisted. 

"Ah,  wretch  !  "  she  cried,  "do  you  come  hither  to  insult  me?  Go 
again  to  your  false  dice  ;  and  the  curse  of  a  wife  and  of  a  mother  be 
upon  you  !"  Then  casting  away  tlie  purse,  and  bending  herself  down 
over  her  child,  and  crying,  "Alas  !  my  poor  babe,  shall  we  eat  from 
the  hand  that  has  ruined  thy  father  ;  " — she  resumed  her  weeping. 

The  tender  Madeline  was  greatly  afflicted  at  being  so  painfully  mis- 
taken ;  and  hastening  home,  she  deliberated  with  herself  whether  she 
should  any  longer  retain  an  apparel  which  had  subjected  her  to  so 
painful  an  occurrence  ;  but  recalling  her  former  persecutions,  and 
trusting  that  so  strange  an  adventure  could  scarcely  befal  her  a  second 
time,  she  continued  in  her  masculine  disguise.  And  now,  thinking  of 
the  comfort  and  protection  which  her  dear  brother  Juan  might  be  to  her 
in  such  troubles,  she  became  vehemently  anxious  for  his  return  ;  and 
the  more  so,  because  she  could  obtain  no  tidings  of  him  whatever. 
On  the  morrow,  therefore,  she  went  forth  to  make  inquiry  ;  and 
forsaking  her  usual  road,  and  especially  the  quarter  where  she  had 
encountered  with  that  unfortunate  woman,  she  trusted  reasonably  to 
meet  with  no  other  such  misery. 

Now  it  chanced  that  the  road  which  she  had  chosen  on  this  day  led 


MADELINE.  695 

close  beside  a  cemetery ;  and  just  at  the  moment  when  she  arrived 
by  the  gates,  there  came  also  a  funeral,  so  that  she  was  obliged  to 
stand  aside  during  the  procession,  Madeline  was  much  struck  by  the 
splendour  of  the  escutcheons  ;  but  still  more  by  the  general  expression 
of  sorrow  amongst  the  people  ;  and  inquiring  of  a  by-stander  the 
name  of  the  deceased  : — "What !"  said  the  man,  "  have  ye  not  heard 
of  the  villanous  murder  of  our  good  lord,  the  Don  Felix  de  Castro? — 
the  hot  curse  of  God  fall  on  the  wicked  Cain  that  slew  him !"  and  with 
that,  he  uttered  so  many  more  dreadful  imprecations  as  made  her 
blood  run  cold  to  hear  him. 

In  the  meantime,  the  mourners  one  by  one  had  almost  entered  ;  and 
the  last  one  was  just  stepping  by,  with  her  hands  clasped  and  a  coun- 
tenance of  the  deepest  sorrow,  when  casting  her  eyes  on  Madeline,  she 
uttered  a  piercing  shriek,  and  pointing  with  her  finger,  cried,  "  That  is 
he,  that  is  he  who  murdered  my  poor  brother  !  " 

At  this  exclamation,  the  people  eagerly  pressed  towards  the  quartei 
whither  she  pointed  ;  but  Madeline,  shrinking  back  from  the  piercing 
glance  of  the  lady,  was  so  hidden  by  the  gate  as  to  be  unnoticed  ;  and 
the  next  man  being  seized  on  suspicion,  and  a  great  tumult  arising,  she 
was  enabled  to  make  her  escape.  "  Alas  ! "  she  sighed  inwardly,  "  what 
sin  have  I  committed,  that  this  cruel  fortune  pursues  me  whithersoever 
I  turn.  Alas,  what  have  I  done  ; "  and  walking  sorrowfully  in  these 
meditations,  she  was  suddenly  accosted  by  a  strange  domestic. 

"  Senor,"  he  said,  "my  lady  desires  most  earnestly  to  see  you  ;  nay, 
you  must  needs  come  ; "  and  thereupon  leading  the  way  into  an  ancient, 
noble-looking  mansion,  the  bewildered  Madeline,  silent  and  wondering, 
was  introduced  to  a  large  apartment.  At  the  further  end  a  lady  attired 
in  deep  mourning,  like  a  widow,  was  reclining  on  a  black  velvet  sofa  ; 
the  curtains  were  black,  the  pictures  were  framed  also  in  black,  and 
the  whole  room  was  so  furnished  in  that  dismal  colour,  that  it  looked 
like  a  very  palace  of  grief. 

At  sight  of  Madeline,  the  lady  rose  hastily  and  ran  a  few  steps  for- 
ward ;  but  her  limbs  failing,  she  stopped  short,  and  rested  with  both 
hands  on  a  little  table  which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Her 
figure  was  tall  and  graceful,  but  so  wasted,  that  it  seemed  as  if  it  must 
needs  bend  to  that  attitude  ;  and  her  countenance  was  so  thin  and  pale, 
and  yet  withal  so  beautiful,  that  Madeline  could  not  behold  it  without 
tears  of  pity.  After  a  pause,  the  lady  cried  in  a  low  voice,  "  Ah,  cruel, 
how  could  you  desert  me !  See  how  1  have  grieved  for  you  ! "  and 
therewith  unbinding  her  hair,  so  that  it  fell  alaout  her  face,  it  was  as 
grey  as  in  a  woman  of  four-score  ! 

"Alas!"  she  said,  "it  was  black  once,  when  I  gave  thee  a  lock 
for  a  keepsake  ;  but  it  was  fitting  it  should  chan^je  when  thou  hast 
,  changed  ;"  and  leaning  her  face  on  her  hands  she  sobbed  heavily. 

At  these  words,  the  tender  Madeline  approached  to  console  her ; 
but  the  lady  pushing  her  gently  aside,  exclaimed  mournfully,  "  It  is 
too  late  !  it  is  too  late,  now  !"  and  then  casting  herself  on  the  sofa, 
gave  way  to  such  a  passion  of  grief,  and  trembled  so  exceedingly,  that 
it  seemed  as  if  life  and  sorrow  would  part  asunder  on  the  spot. 
Madeline  kneeling  down,  and  swearing  that  she  had  never  injured  her, 
besought  her  to  moderate  a  transport  which  broke  her  heart  only  to 


696  MADELINE. 

gaze  upon ;  and  the  lady  moving  her  lips,  but  unable  to  make  any 
reply,  then  drew  from  her  bosom  a  small  miniature,  aad  sobbing  out, 
"C  Juan,  Juan  !"  hid  her  face  again  upon  the  cushion. 

At  sight  of  the  picture,  the  miserable  Madeline  was  in  her  own  turn 
speechless  ;  and  remembering  instantly  the  beggar  and  the  mourner, 
whose  mistakes  were  thus  illustrated  by  the  unhappy  lady — she  com- 
prehended at  once  the  full  measure  of  her  wretchedness.  "  Oh,  Juan 
Juan  !"  she  groaned,  "is  it  thus  horribly  that  I  must  hear  of  thee  !'* 
snd  stretching  herself  upon  the  carpet,  she  uttered  such  piercing  cries, 
that  the  lady,  alarmed  by  a  grief  which  surpassed  even  her  own, 
endeavoured  to  raise  her,  and  happening  to  tear  open  the  bosom  of 
her  dress,  the  sex  of  Madeline  was  discovered.  "Alas,  poor  wretch  ! 
hast  thou  too  been  deceived,"  cried  the  lady,  "  and  by  the  same  false 
Juan?"  and  enfolding  Madeline  in  her  aims,  the  two  unfortunates 
wept  together  for  the  space  of  many  minutes. 

In  the  meantime,  a  domestic  abruptly  entered  ;  and  exclaiming  that 
the  murderer  of  Don  Felix  was  condemned,  and  that  he  had  seen  him 
conducted  to  prison,  he  delivered  into  the  hands  of  his  mistress  a  frag- 
ment of  a  letter,  which  she  read  as  follows  : — 

*'  Most  dear  and  injured  lady, — Before  this  shocks  your  eyes,  your 
ears  will  be  stung  with  the  news  that  it  is  I  who  have  killed  your  kins- 
man ;  and  knowing  that  by  the  same  blow  I  have  slain  your  peace,  I 
am  not  less  stained  by  your  tears  than  by  his  blood  which  is  shed. 
My  wretched  life  will  speedily  make  atonement  for  this  last  offence  ; 
but  that  I  should  have  requited  your  admirable  constancy  and  affec- 
tion by  so  unworthy  a  return  of  cruelty  and  falsehood,  is  a  crime  that 
scorches  up  my  tears  before  I  can  shed  them  ;  and  makes  me  so  des- 
pair, that  I  cannot  pray  even  on  the  threshold  of  death.  And  yet,  I 
am  not  quite  the  wretch  you  may  account  me,  except  in  misery  ;  but 
desiring  only  to  die  as  the  most  unhappy  man  in  this  unhappy  world 
I  have  withheld  many  particulars  which  might  otherwise  intercede  for 
me  with  my  judges.  But  I  desire  to  die,  and  to  pass  away  from  both 
hatred  and  pity,  if  any  such  befal  me  ;  but  above  all,  to  perish  from  a 
remembrance  whereof  I  am  most  unworthy  :  and  when  I  am  but  a 
clod,  and  a  poor  remnant  of  dust,  you  may  happily  forgive,  for  mortal- 
ity's sake,  the  many  faults  and  human  sins  which  did  once  inhabit  it. 

"  I  am  only  a  few  brief  hours  short  of  this  consummation  :  and  the 
life  which  was  bestowed  for  your  misery  and  mine  will  be  extinguished 
for  ever.  My  blood  is  running  its  last  course  through  its  veins — and 
the  light  and  air  of  which  all  others  so  largely  partake,  is  scantily 
measured  out  to  me.  Do  not  curse  me — do  not  forget  that  which  you 
once  were  to  me,  though  unrelated  to  my  crimes  ;  but  if  my  name  may 
still  live  where  my  lips  have  been,  put  your  pardon  into  a  prayer  for 
my  soul  aij;ainst  its  last  sunrise.  Only  one  more  request.  I  have  a 
sister  in  Toledo  who  tenderly  loves  me,  and  believes  that  I  am  still 
abroad.  If  it  be  a  thing  possible,  confirm  her  still  in  that  happy  de- 
lusion— or  tell  her  that  I  am  dead,  but  not  how.  As  I  have  concealed 
my  true  name,  I  hope  that  this  deadly  reproach  may  be  spared  to  her, 
and  now  from  the  very  conhnes  of  the  grave" 


MADELINE,  697 

It  was  a  painful  thing  to  hear  the  afflicted  lady  reading  thus  f.ir  be- 
twixt her  groans — but  the  remainder  wns  written  in  so  wavering  a  hand, 
and  withal  so  stained  and  blotted,  that,  like  the  meaning  of  death  itself, 
it  surpassed  discovery.  At  length,  "Let  me  go,"  cried  Madeline,  "let 
me  go  and  liberate  him  !  If  they  mistake  me  thus  for  my  brother 
Juan,  the  gaoler  will  not  be  able  to  distinguish  him  from  me,  and  in 
this  manner  he  may  escape,  and  so  have  more  years  for  repentance, 
and  make  his  peace  with  God."  Hereupon,  wildly  clapping  her  hands, 
as  if  for  joy  at  this  fortunate  thought,  she  entreated  so  earnestly  for  a 
womanly  dress  that  it  was  given  to  her,  and  throwing  it  over  her  man's 
apparel,  she  made  the  best  of  her  way  to  the  prison.  But,  alas  !  the 
countenance  of  the  miserable  Juan  was  so  changed  by  sickness  and 
sharp  anguish  of  mind,  that  for  want  of  a  more  happy  token  she  was 
constrained  to  recognise  him  by  his  bonds.  Her  fond  stratagem  there- 
fore would  have  been  hopeless,  if  Juan  besides  had  not  been  so  reso- 
lute, as  he  was,  in  his  opposition  to  her  entreaties.  She  was  obliged, 
therefore,  to  content  herself  with  mingling  tears  with  him  till  night,  in 
his  dungeon, — and  then  struggling,  and  tearing  her  fine  hair,  as  though 
it  had  been  guilty  of  her  grief,  she  was  removed  from  him  by  main 
force,  and  in  that  manner  conveyed  back  to  the  lady's  residence. 

For  some  hours  she  expended  her  breath  only  in  raving  and  the 
most  passionate  arguments  of  distress, — but  afterwards  she  became 
as  fearfully  calm,  neither  speaking,  nor  weeping,  nor  listening  to  what 
was  addressed  to  her,  merely  remarking  about  midnight,  that  she  heard 
the  din  of  the  workmen  upon  the  scaffold — and  which,  though  heard 
by  no  other  person  at  so  great  a  distance,  was  confirmed  afterwards  to 
have  been  a  truth.  In  this  state,  with  her  eyes  fixed  and  her  lips  mov- 
ing, but  without  any  utterance,  she  remained  till  morning  in  a  kind  of 
lethargy — and  therein  so  much  more  happy  than  her  unfortunate 
companion,  who  at  every  sound  of  the  great  bell  which  is  always  tolled 
against  the  death  of  a  convict,  started  and  sobbed  and  shook,  as  if  each 
stroke  was  made  against  her  own  heart.  But  of  Madeline,  on  the 
contrary,  it  was  noted  that  even  when  the  doleful  procession  was  pass- 
ing immediately  under  the  window  at  which  she  was  present,  she  only 
shivered  a  little,  as  if  at  a  cool  breath  of  air,  and  then  turning  slowly 
away,  and  desiring  to  be  laid  in  bed,  she  fell  into  a  slumber,  as  pro- 
found nearly  as  death  itself.  But  it  was  not  her  blessed  fate  to  die  so 
quickly,  although  on  the  next  morning  the  unhappy  partner  of  her 
grief  was  found  dead  upon  her  pillow,  still  and  cold,  and  with  so 
sorrowful  an  expression  about  her  countenance,  as  might  well  rejoice 
the  beholder  that  she  was  divorced  from  a  life  of  so  deep  a  trouble. 

As  for  Madeline,  she  took  no  visible  note  of  this  occurrence,  nor 
seemed  to  have  any  return  of  reason  till  the  third  day,  when  growing 
more  and  more  restless,  and  at  length  wandering  out  mto  the  city,  she 
was  observed  to  tear  down  one  of  the  proclamations  for  the  execution, 
which  were  still  attached  to  the  walls.  After  this,  she  was  no  more 
seen  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  it  was  feared  she  had  violently  made 
away  with  her  life  ;  but  by  later  accounts  from  Toledo,  it  was  ascer- 
tained that  she  had  wandered  back,  bare-footed  and  quite  a  maniac, 
to  that  city. 

She  was  for  some  years  the  wonder  and  the  pity  of  its  inhabitantSi 


6g«  MASETTO  AND  HIS  MARE. 

and  when  I  have  been  in  Toledo  with  my  Uncle  Francis,  I  have  seen 
this  poor  crazed  Madeline,  as  they  called  her,  with  her  long  loose  hair 
and  her  fine  face,  so  pale  and  thin,  and  so  calm-looking,  that  it  seemed 
to  be  only  held  alive  by  her  large  black  eyes.  She  was  always  mild 
and  gentle,  and  if  you  provoked  it,  would  freely  converse  with  you  ; 
but  oftentimes  in  the  midst  of  her  discourse,  whether  cheerful  or  sad, 
she  would  p:iuse  and  sigh,  and  say  in  a  different  voice,  "O  Juan, 
Juan  ! "  and  with  these  two  words,  simple  though  they  be,  she  made 
every  heart  ache  that  heard  her. 


MASETTO  AND  HIS  MARK 

IT  is  remarkable,  and  hardly  to  be  believed  by  those  who  have  not 
studied  the  history  of  superstition,  what  extravagant  fables  may 
be  imposed  on  the  faith  of  the  vulgar  people  ;  especially  when  such 
fables  are  rehearsed  in  print,  which  of  itself  has  passed  before  now  as 
the  work  of  a  black  or  magical  art,  and  has  still  influence  enough  over 
ignorant  rninds,  to  make  them  believe,  like  Masetto,  that  a  book  of 
romances  is  a  gospel. 

This  Masetto,  like  most  other  rustics,  was  a  very  credulous  man; 
but  more  simple  otherwise  than  country-folks  commonly  appear,  who 
have  a  great  deal  of  crafty  instinct  of  their  own,  which  comes  to  them 
spontaneously,  as  to  the  ravens  and  magpies.  And  whereas  pastoral 
people  are  generally  churlish  and  headstrong,  and  in  spite  of  the 
antique  poets,  of  coarse  and  brutal  tempers,  Masetto,  on  the  contrary, 
was  very  gentle  and  mild,  and  so  compassionate  withal,  that  he  would 
weep  over  a  wounded  creature  like  a  very  woman.  This  easy  disposi 
tion  made  him  liable  to  be  tricked  by  any  subtle  knave  that  might 
think  it  worth  his  pains,  and  amongst  such  rogues  there  was  none  that 
duped  him  more  notably  than  one  Bruno  Corvette,  a  horse-courser, 
and  as  dishonest  as  the  most  capital  of  his  trade.  This  fellow,  observ- 
ing that  Masetto  had  a  very  good  mare,  which  he  kept  to  convey  his 
wares  to  Florence,  resolved  to  obtain  her  at  the  cheapest  rate,  which 
was  by  stratagem,  and  knowing  well  the  simple  and  credulous  char- 
acter of  the  farmer,  he  soon  devised  a  plan.  Now  Masetto  was  very 
tender  to  all  dumb  animals,  and  especially  to  his  mare,  who  was  not 
insensible  to  his  kindly  usage,  but  pricked  up  her  ears  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  and  followed  him  here  and  there,  with  the  sagacity  and 
affection  of  a  faithful  dog,  together  with  many  other  such  tokens  of  hu 
intelligence  that  has  rarely  belonged  to  her  race.  The  crafty  C6rvefto, 
therefore,  conceived  great  hopes  of  his  scheme  :  accordingly,  having 
planted  himself  in  the  road  by  which  Masetto  used  to  return  home, 
he  managed  to  fall  into  discourse  with  him  about  the  mare,  which  he 
regarded  very  earnestly,  and  this  he  repeated  for  several  days.  At  last 
Masetto  observing  that  he  seemed  very  much  affected  when  he  talked 
of  her,  became  very  curious  about  the  cause,  and  inquired  if  it  had 
ever  been  his  good  fortune  to  have  such  another  good  mare  as  his 
own  ;  to  this  Corvetto  made  no  reply,  but  throwing  his  arms  about 
\he  mare's  neck,  began  to  hug  her  so  lovingly,  and  with  so  many  deep- 


MASETTO  AND  HIS  MARE.  699 

drawn  sighs,  tTiai  Masetto  began  to  stare  amazingly,  and  to  cross  him- 
self as  fast  as  he  could.  The  hypocritical  Corvetto  then  turning  away 
from  the  animal, — "Alas!"  said  he, '' this  beloved  creature  that  you 
see  before  you  is  no  mare,  but  an  unhappy  woman,  disguised  in  this 
horrible  brutal  shape  by  an  accursed  magician.  Heaven  only  knows 
in  what  manner  my  beloved  wife  provoked  this  infernal  malice,  but 
doubtless  it  was  by  her  unconquerable  virtue,  which  was  rivalled  only 
by  the  loveliness  of  her  person.  I  have  been  seeking  her  in  this 
shape,  all  over  the  wearisome  earth,  and  now  I  have  discovered  her, 
I  have  not  wherewithal  to  redeem  her  of  you,  my  money  being  all 
expended  in  the  charges  of  travelling,  otherwise  I  would  take  her 
instantly  to  the  most  famous  wizard,  Michael  Scott,  who  is  presently 
sojournmg  at  Florence,  and  by  help  of  his  magical  books  might 
discover  some  charm  to  restore  her  to  her  natural  shape."  Then 
clasping  the  docile  mare  about  the  neck  again,  he  affected  to  weep 
over  her  very  bitterly. 

The  simple  Masetto  was  very  much  disturbed  at  this  story,  but  knew 
not  whether  to  believe  it,  till  at  last  he  bethought  himself  of  the  village 
priest,  and  proposed  to  consult  him  upon  the  case  ;  and  whether  the 
lady,  if  there  was  one,  might  not  be  exorcised  out  of  the  body  of  his 
mare.  The  knavish  Corvetto,  knowing  well  that  this  would  ruin  his 
whole  plot,  was  prepared  to  dissuade  him.  "  You  know,"  said  he, 
"the  vile  curiosity  of  our  country-people,  who  would  not  fail  at  such 
a  rumour  to  pester  us  out  of  our  senses  ;  and,  especially,  they  would 
torment  my  unhappy  wife,  upon  whom  they  would  omit  no  experiment, 
however  cruel,  for  their  satisfaction.  Besides,  it  would  certainly  kill 
her  with  grief,  to  have  her  disgrace  so  published  to  the  world,  which 
she  cannot  but  feel  very  bitterly  ;  for  it  must  be  a  shocking  thing  for 
a  young  lady  who  has  been  accustomed  to  listen  to  the  loftiest  pr.iises 
of  her  womanly  beauty,  to  know  herself  thus  horribly  degraded  in  the 
foul  body  of  a  bmte.  Alas  !  who  could  think  that  her  beautiful  locks, 
which  used  to  shine  like  golden  wires,  are  now  turned  by  damnable 
magic  into  this  coarse  slovenly  mane  ; — or  her  delicate  white  hands 
— oh  !  how  pure  and  lily-like  they  were — into  these  hard  and  iron- 
shod  hoofs  !  "  The  tender-hearted  Masetto  beginning  to  look  very 
doleful  at  these  exclamations,  the  knave  saw  that  his  performance 
began  to  take  effect,  and  so  begged  no  more  for  the  present,  than  that 
Masetto  would  treat  his  mare  very  kindly,  and  rub  her  teeth  daily  with 
a  sprig  of  magical  hornbeam,  which  the  simple-witted  rustic  promised 
very  readily  to  perform.  He  had,  notwithstanding,  some  buzzing 
doubts  in  his  head  upon  the  matter,  which  Corvetto  found  means  to 
remove  by  degrees,  taking  care,  above  all,  to  caress  the  unconscious 
niare  whenever  they  met,  and  sometimes  going  half-privately  to  con- 
verse with  her  in  the  stable. 

At  last,  Masetto  being  very  much  distressed  by  these  proceedings, 
he  addressed  Corvetto  as  follows  : — "  I  am  at  my  wit's  end  about  this 
matter.  I  cannot  find  in  my  heart,  from  respect,  to  make  my  lady  do 
any  kind  of  rude  work,  so  that  my  cart  stands  idle  in  the  stable,  and 
my  wares  are  thus  unsold,  which  is  a  state  of  things  that  I  cannot  ver** 
well  affoid.  But,  above  all,  your  anguish  whenever  you  meet  with 
your  poor  wife  is  more  than  I  can  bear ;  it  seems  such  a  shocking  and 


7<»  MASETTO  AND  HIS  MARE. 

unchristian-like  sin  in  me,  for  the  sake  of  a  Httle  money,  to  keep  ynt 
both  asunder.  Take  her,  therefore,  freely  of  me  as  a  gift  ;  or  if  you 
will  not  receive  her  thus,  out  of  consideration  for  my  poverty,  it  shall 
be  paid  nie  when  your  lady  is  restored  to  her  estates,  and  by  your 
favour,  wiih  her  own  lily-white  hand.  Nay,  pray  accept  of  her  with- 
out a  word  ;  you  must  be  longing,  I  know,  to  take  her  to  the  great 
wizard,  Michael  Scott  ;  and  in  the  meantime  I  will  pray,  myself,  to 
the  blessed  saints  and  martyrs,  that  his  charms  may  have'  the  proper 
effect."  The  rogue,  at  these  words,  with  undissembled  joy  fell  about 
the  mare's  neck  ;  and,  taking  her  by  the  halter,  after  a  formal  parting 
with  Masetto,  began  to  lead  her  gently  away.  Her  old  master,  with 
brimful  eyes,  contmued  watching  her  departure  till  her  tail  was  quite 
out  of  sight;  whereupon,  Corvetto  leapt  instantly  on  her  back,  and 
without  stint  or  mercy  began  galloping  towards  Florence,  where  he 
sold  her,  as  certain  Saxons  are  recorded  to  have  disposed  of  their 
wives,  in  the  mnrket-place. 

Some  time  afterwards,  Masetto  repairing  to  Florence  on  a  holiday, 
to  purchase  another  horse  for  his  business,  he  beheld  a  carrier  in  one 
of  the  streets,  who  was  beating  his  jade  very  cruelly.  The  kind 
Masetto  directly  interfered  in  behalf  of  the  ill-used  brute, — which 
indeed,  was  his  own  mare,  though  much  altered  by  hard  labour  and 
sorry  diet, — and  now  got  into  a  fresh  scrape,  with  redoubled  blows, 
through  capering  up  to  her  old  master.  Masetto  was  much  shocked, 
you  may  be  sure,  to  discover  the  enchanted  lady  in  such  a  wretched 
plight.  But  not  doubting  that  she  had  been  stolen  from  her  afflicted 
husband,  he  taxed  the  carrier  very  roundly  with  the  theft,  who  laughed 
at  him  in  his  turn  for  a  madman,  and  proved  by  three  witnesses  that 
he  had  purchased  the  mare  of  Corvetto.  Masetto's  eyes  were  thus 
opened,  but  by  a  very  painful  operation.  However,  he  purchased  his 
mare  again,  without  bargaining  for  either  golden  hair  or  lily-white 
hands,  and  with  a  heavy  heart  rode  back  again  to  his  village.  The 
inhabitants,  when  he  arrived,  were  met  together  on  some  public 
business  ;  after  which  Masetto,  like  an  imprudent  man  as  he  was, 
complained  bitterly  amongst  his  neighbours  of  his  disaster.  They 
made  themselves,  therefore,  very  merry  at  his  expense,  and  the 
schoolmaster  especially,  who  was  reckoned  the  chiefest  wit  of  the  place. 
Masetto  bore  all  their  railleries  with  great  patience,  defending  himself 
with  many  reasonable  arguments — and  at  last  he  told  them  he  would 
bring  them  in  proof  quite  as  wonderful  a  case.  Accordingly,  stepping 
back  to  his  own  house,  he  returned  with  an  old  tattered  volume,  which 
Corvetto  had  bestowed  on  him,  of  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  and  began 
to  read  to  them  the  story  of  Sidi  Nonnian,  whose  wife  was  turned,  as 
ivell  as  Corvetto's,  into  a  beautiful  mare.  His  neighbours  laughing 
more  lustily  than  ever  at  this  illustration,  and  the  schoolmaster  crow- 
ing above  them  all,  Masetto  interrupted  him  with  great  indignation* 
"How  is  this,  sir,"  said  he,  "that  you  mock  me  so,  whereas,  I  re- 
member, th<it  when  I  was  your  serving-man  and  swept  out  the  school- 
room, 1  have  overheard  you  teaching  the  little  children  concerning 
people  in  the  old  ages,  that  were  half  men  and  the  other  half  turned 
into  horses  ;  yea,  and  showing  them  the  eftigies  in  a  print,  and  what 
was  there  more  impossible  in  this  matter  of  my  own  mare?"     Th« 


THE  STORY  OF  MICHEL  ARGENT/.  701 

briest  interposing  at  this  passage,  in  defence  of  the  schoolmaster, 
Masetto  answered  him  as  he  had  answered  the  pedagogue,  excepting 
Ihat  instead  of  the  Ceivaurs,  he  alleged  a  mir.icle  out  of  tlie  Holy 
Fathers,  in  proof  of  the  powers  of  magic.  There  was  some  fresh 
laughing  at  this  rub  of  the  bowls  against  the  pastor,  who  being  a 
Jesuit  and  a  very  subtle  man,  b'gan  to  consider  within  himself 
whether  it  was  not  better  for  their  souls,  that  his  flock  should  believe 
by  wholesale,  than  have  too  scrupulous  a  faith,  and  accordingly,  after 
a  little  deliberation,  he  sided  with  Masetto.  He  engaged,  moreover, 
to  write  for  the  opinion  of  his  College,  who  replied,  that  as  sorcery 
was  a  devilish  and  infernal  art,  its  existence  was  as  certain  as  the 
devil's. 

Thus  a  belief  in  enchantment  took  root  in  the  villnge,  which  in  the 
end  flourished  so  vigorously,  that  although  the  rustics  could  not  be 
jugis^led  out  of  any  of  their  mares,  they  burned,  nevertheless,  a  number 
of  unprofitable  old  women. 


THE  STORY  OF  MICHEL  ARGENTI. 

MICHEL  ARGENTI  was  a  learned  physician  of  Padua  but  lately 
settled  at  Florence,  a  few  years  only  before  its  memorable 
visitation,  when  tlie  Destroying  Angel  brooded  over  that  unhappy  city, 
shaking  out  deadly  vapours  from  its  wings. 

It  must  have  been  a  savage  heart,  indeed,  that  could  not  be  moved 
by  the  shocking  scenes  that  ensued  from  that  horrible  calamity,  and 
wliich  were  fearful  enough  to  overcome  even  the  dearest  pieties  and 
prejudices  of  humanity  ;  causing  the  holy  ashes  of  the  dead  to  be  no 
lonyer  venerated,  and  the  living  to  be  disregarded  by  their  nearest  ties  : 
the  tenderest  mothers  forsaking  their  infants  ;  wives  flying  from  the 
sick  couches  of  their  husbands  ;  and  children  neglecting  their  dying 
parents  ;  when  love  closed  the  door  against  love,  and  particular  selfish- 
ness took  place  of  all  mutual  sympathies.  There  were  some  brave, 
humane  spirits,  nevertheless,  that  with  a  divine  courage  ventured  into 
the  very  chambers  of  the  sick,  and  contended  over  their  prostrate  bodies 
with  the  common  enemy;  and  amongst  these  was  Argenti,  who  led  the 
way  in  such  works  of  mercy,  till  at  last  the  pesiilence  stepped  over  his 
own  threshold,  and  he  was  beckoned  home  by  the  ghastly  finger  of 
Death,  to  struggle  with  him  for  the  wife  of  his  own  bosom. 

Ima;4ine  him  then,  worn  out  in  spirit  and  body,  ministering  hopeless- 
ly to  her  that  had  been  dearer  to  him  than  health  or  life  ;  but  now,  in- 
stead of  an  object  of  loveliness,  a  livid  and  ghastly  spectacle,  almost 
too  loathsome  to  look  upon  ;  her  pure  flesh  being  covered  with  blue 
and  mortiferous  blotches,  her  sweet  breath  changed  into  a  fetid  vapour, 
and  her  accents  expressive  only  of  anguish  and  despair.  These  dole- 
ful sounds  were  aggravated  by  the  songs  and  festivities  of  the  giddy 
populace,  which,  now  the  pestilence  had  abated,  ascended  into  the  de- 
solate chamber  of  its  last  martyr,  and  min.uled  with  her  dying  groans. 

These  ending  on  the  third  day  with  her  life,  Argenti  was  left  to  his 
solitary  grief,  the  only  living  person  in  his  desolate  house ;  his  seivanti 


70«  THE  STORY  OF  MICHEL  ARGENTI. 

having  fled  during  the  pestilence,  and  left  him  to  perform  eveiy  office 
with  his  own  hands.  Hitherto  the  dead  had  gone  without  their  rites ; 
but  he  had  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  those  sacred  and  decent 
services  for  his  wife's  remains,  which  during  the  heii^lit  of  the  plague 
had  been  direfuUy  suspended;  the  dead  bodies  being  so  awtuUy 
numerous,  that  they  defied  a  careful  sepulture,  but  were  thrown,  by 
random  and  slovenly  heaps,  into  great  holes  and  ditches. 

As  soon  as  was  prudent  after  this  catastrophe,  his  friends  repaired 
to  him  with  his  two  little  children,  who  had  fortunately  been  absent 
in  the  country,  and  now  returned  with  brave  ruddy  cheeks  and  vigor- 
ous spirits  to  his  arms  ;  but,  alas  !  not  to  cheer  their  miserable  parent, 
who  thenceforward  was  never  known  to  smile,  nor  scarcely  to  speak, 
excepting  of  the  pestilence.  As  a  person  that  goes  forth  from  a  dark 
sick-chamber  is  still  haunted  by  its  glooms,  in  spite  of  the  sunshine  ; 
fio,  though  the  plague  had  ceased,  its  horrors  still  clung  about  the  mind 
of  Argenti,  and  with  such  a  deadly  influence  in  his  thoughts,  as  it 
bequeaths  to  the  infected  garments  of  the  dead.  The  dreadful  objects 
he  had  witnessed  still  walking  with  their  ghostly  images  in  his  brain — 
his  mind,  in  short,  being  but  a  doleful  lazaretto  devoted  to  pestilence 
and  death.  The  same  horrible  spectres  possessed  his  dreams  ;  which 
he  sometimes  described  as  filled  up  from  the  same  black  source,  and 
thronging  with  the  living  sick  he  had  visited,  or  the  multitudinous 
dead  corses,  with  the  unmentionable  and  unsightly  rites  of  their  inhu- 
mation. 

These  dreary  visions  entering  into  all  his  thoughts,  it  happened 
often,  that  when  he  was  summoned  to  the  sick,  he  pronounced  that 
their  malady  was  the  plague,  discovering  its  awful  symptoms  in  bodies 
where  it  had  no  existence  ;  but  above  all,  his  terrors  were  busy  with 
his  children,  whom  he  watched  with  a  vigilant  and  despairing  eye ; 
disceiaing  constantly  some  deadly  taint  in  their  wholesome  breath,  or 
declaring  that  he  saw  the  plague-spot  in  their  tender  faces.  .  Thus, 
watching  them  sometimes  upon  their  pillows,  he  would  burst  into  tears 
and  exclaim  that  they  were  smitten  with  death  ;  in  short,  he  regarded 
their  blue  eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks  but  as  the  frail  roses  and  violets  that 
are  to  perish  in  a  day,  and  their  silken  hair  like  the  most  brittle 
gossamers.  Thus  their  existence,  which  should  have  been  a  blessing 
to  his  hopes,  became  a  very  curse  to  him  through  his  despair. 

His  friends,  judging  rightly  from  these  tokens  that  his  mind  was  im- 
paired, persuaded  him  to  remove  from  a  place  which  had  been  the 
theatre  of  his  calamities,  and  served  but  too  frequently  to  remind  him 
of  his  fears.  He  repaired,  therefore,  with  his  children  to  the  house  of  a 
kinswoman  at  Genoa  ;  but  his  melancholy  was  not  at  all  relieved  by  the 
thange,  his  mind  being  now  like  a  black  Sty:4ian  pool  that  reflects 
not,  except  one  dismal  hue,  whatever  shifting  colours  are  presented  by 
the  skies.  In  this  mood  he  continued  there  five  or  six  weeks,  when 
the  superb  city  was  thrown  into  the  greatest  alarm  and  confusion. 
The  popular  rumour  reported  that  the  plague  had  been  brought  into 
».he  port  by  a  Moorish  felucca,  whereupon  the  magistrates  ordered  that 
the  usual  precautions  should  be  observed  ;  so  that  although  there  was 
no  real  pestilence,  the  city  presented  the  usual  appearances  of  such  a 
visitatioa. 


THE  STORY  OF  MICHEL  ARGENTI.  70J 

These  tokens  were  sufficient  to  aggravate  the  malady  of  Argenti, 
«vhose  illusions  became  instantly  more  frequent  and  desperate,  and  his 
affliction  almost  a  frenzy  ;  so  that  going  at  night  to  his  children,  he 
looked  upon  them  in  an  agony  of  despair,  as  though  they  were  already 
in  their  shrouds.  And  when  he  gazed  on  their  delicate  round  cheeks, 
like  ripening  fruits,  and  their  fair  arms,  like  sculj  tured  marbles,  en- 
twining each  other,  'tis  no  marvel  that  he  begrudged  to  pestilence  the 
horrible  and  loathsome  disfigurements  and  changes  which  it  would  bring 
upon  their  beautiful  bodies  ;  neither  that  he  contemplated  with  horror 
the  painful  stages  by  which  they  must  travel  to  their  premature  graves. 
Some  meditations  as  dismal  I  doubt  not  occupied  his  incoherent 
thoughts,  and  whilst  they  lay  before  him  so  lovely  and  calm-looking, 
made  him  wish  that  instead  of  a  temporal  sleep,  they  were  laid  in 
eternal  rest.  Their  odorous  breath,  as  he  kissed  them,  was  as  sweet 
as  flowers  ;  and  their  pure  skin  without  spot  or  blemish  :  nevertheless, 
to  his  gloomy  fancy  the  corrupted  touches  of  Death  were  on  them 
both,  and  devoted  their  short-lived  frames  to  his  most  hateful  inflic- 
tions. 

Imagine  him  gazing  full  of  these  dismal  thoughts  on  their  faces, 
sometimes  smiting  himself  upon  his  forehead,  that  entertained  such 
horrible  fancies,  and  sometimes  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  chamber  with 
an  emphatic  step,  which  must  needs  have  wakened  his  little  ones  if 
they  had  not  been  lapped  in  the  profound  slumber  of  innocence  and 
childhood.  In  the  meantime  the  mild  light  of  love  in  his  looks, 
changes  into  a  fierce  and  dreary  fire  ;  nis  sparkling  eyes,  and  his  lips 
as  pallid  as  ashes,  betraying  the  desperate  access  of  frenzy,  w  hich  like 
a  howling  demon  passes  into  his  feverish  soul,  and  provokes  him  to 
unnatural  action  :  and  first  of  all  he  plucks  away  the  pillows,  those 
downy  ministers  to  harmless  sleep,  but  now  unto  death,  with  which 
crushing  the  lender  faces  of  his  little  ones,  he  thus  dams  up  their  gentle 
respirations  before  they  can  utter  a  cry  ;  then  casting  himself  with 
horrid  fervour  upon  their  bodies,  with  this  unfatherlike  embrace  he 
enfolds  them  till  they  are  quite  breathless.  After  which  he  lifts  up  the 
pillows,  and,  lo  !  there  lie  the  two  murdered  babes,  utterly  quiet  and 
still, — and  with  the  ghastly  seal  of  death  imprinted  on  their  waxen 
cheeks. 

In  this  dreadful  manner  Argenti  destroyed  his  innocent  children,— 
not  in  hatred,  but  ignorantly,  and  wrought  upon  by  the  constant  ap- 
prehension of  their  death  ;  even  as  a  terrified  wretch  upon  a  precipice, 
who  swerves  towards  the  very  side  that  presents  the  danger.  Let  his 
deed,  therefore,  be  viewed  with  compassion,  as  the  fault  of  his  unhappy 
fate,  which  forced  upon  him  such  a  cruel  crisis,  and  finally  ended  his 
sorrows  by  as  tragical  a  death.  On  the  morrow  his  dead  body  was 
found  at  sea  by  some  fishermen,  and  being  recognised  as  Argenti's,  \i 
ft'us  interred  in  one  grave  with  those  of  his  two  children 


THE  THREE  JEWELS. 

THERE  are  many  examples  in  ancient  and  modern  story,  of  loveri 
who  have  worn  various  disijuises  to  obtain  their  mistresses  ;  the 
great  Jupiter  himself  setting  the  pattern  by  his  notable  transformations. 
Since  those  heroic  days,  love  has  often  diverted  himself  in  Italy  as  a 
shepherd  with  his  pastoral  crook  ;  and  I  propose  to  tell  you  how,  in 
more  recent  times,  he  has  gone  amongst  us  in  various  other  shapes. 
But  in  the  first  place  I  must  introduce  to  you  a  handsome  youth, 
named  Torrello,  of  Bergamo,  who  was  enamoured  of  Fiorenza,  the 
daughter  of  gentlefolks  in  the  same  neighbourhood.  His  enemies 
never  objected  anything  against  Torrello  but  his  want  of  means  to 
support  his  gentlemanly  pretensions,  and  some  extravagances  and 
follies  which  belong  generally  to  youth,  and  are  often  the  mere  foils 
of  a  generous  nature.  However,  the  parents  of  Fiorenza  being  some- 
what austere,  perceived  graver  offences  in  his  flights,  and  forbade  him, 
under  grievous  penalties,  to  keep  company  with  his  mistress. 

Love,  notwithstanding,  is  the  parent  of  more  inventions  than 
necessity,  and  Torrello,  being  a  lively-witted  fellow,  and  with.il  deeply 
inspired  by  love,  soon  found  out  a  way  to  be  as  often  as  he  would  in 
the  presence  of  his  lady.  Seeing  that  he  could  not  transform  himself, 
like  Jupiter,  into  a  shower  of  gold  for  her  sake,  he  put  on  the  more 
humble  seeming  of  a  gardener,  and  so  got  employed  ip  the  pleasure- 
ground  of  her  parents.  I  leave  you  to  guess,  then,  how  the  flowers 
prospered  under  his  care,  since  they  were  to  form  bouquets  for 
Fiorenza,  who  was  seldom  afterwards  to  be  seen  without  some  pretty 
blossom  in  her  bosom.  She  took  many  lessons,  besides,  of  the  gardener 
in  his  t;entle  craft,  and  her  fondness  growing  for  the  employment,  her 
time  was  almost  all  spent  naturally  amongst  her  plants,  and  to  the 
infinite  cultivation  of  her  heart's-ease,  wliich  had  never  before  pros- 
pered to  such  a  growth.  She  learned  also  of  Torrello  a  pretty 
language  of  hieroglyphics,  which  he  had  gathered  from  the  gn  Is  of 
the  Greek  islands,  so  that  they  could  hold  secret  colloquies  together 
by  exchanges  of  flowers  ;  and  Fiorenza  became  more  eloquent  by  this 
kind  of  speech  than  in  her  own  language,  which  she  had  never  found 
competent  to  her  dearest  confessions. 

Conceive  liow  abundantly  happy  they  were  in  such  employments, 
surrounded  by  the  lovely  gifts  of  Nature,  their  pleasant  occupation  of 
itself  being  the  primeval  recreation  of  humankind  before  the  Fall,  and 
love  especially  being  with  them,  that  can  convert  a  wilderness  into  a 
garden  of  sweets. 

The  mother  of  Fiorenza  chiding  her  sometimes  for  the  neglect  of 
her  embroideries,  she  would  answer  in  this  manner  : — 

"  O  my  dear  mother  !  what  is  thi  re  in  labours  of  art  at  all 
comparable  with  these  .'  Why  should  I  task  myself  with  a  tedious 
needle  to  stitch  out  poor  tame  formal  emblems  of  these  beautiful 
flowers  and  plants,  when  thus  the  living  blooms  spring  up  naturally 
ender  my  hands?  1  confess  I  never  could  account  for  ti;e  fondness  o/ 
young  women  for  that  unwholesome  chamber-work,  for  the  sake  of  a 


THE  THREE  JEWELS.  70. 

piece  of  inanimate  tapestry,  which  hath  neither  freshness  nor  frag« 
grance;  whereas,  this  bre<  zy  air,  with  the  odour  of  the  plants  and 
shrubs,  inspirits  my  very  heart.  I  assure  you,  'tis  like  a  woik  of 
mngic  to  see  how  they  are  charmed  to  spring  up  by  the  hands  of  our 
skilful  gardener,  who  is  so  civil  and  kind  as  to  teach  me  all  the  secrets 
of  his  art." 

By  such  expressions  her  mother  was  quieted  ;  but  her  father  was 
not  so  easily  pacified ;  for  it  happened,  that  whilst  the  roses  flourished 
everywhere,  the  household  herbs,  by  the  neglect  of  Toirello  and  his 
assistants,  went  entirely  to  decay,  so  that  at  last,  though  there  was  a 
nosegay  in  every  chamber,  there  was  seldom  a  salad  for  the  table. 
The  master  taking  notite  of  the  neglect,  and  the  foolish  Torrello  in 
reply  showing  a  beautiful  flowery  arbour,  which  he  had  busied  himself 
in  erecting,  he  was  abruptly  discharged  on  the  spot,  and  driven  out, 
like  Adam,  from  his  paradise  of  flo'  ers. 

The  mother  being  informed  afterwards  of  this  transaction — 

"In  truth,"  said  she,  "it  was  well  done  of  you,  for  the  fellow  was 
very  forward,  and  I  think  Fiorenza  did  herself  some  disparagement 
in  making  so  much  of  him,  as  I  have  observed.  For  example,  a  small 
fee  of  a  crown  or  two  would  have  paid  him  handsomely  for  his  lessons 
to  her,  without  giving  him  one  of  her  jewels,  which  I  fear  the  knave 
will  be  insolent  enough  to  wear  and  make  a  boast  of." 

And  truly  Torrello  never  parted  with  the  gift,  which,  as  though  it 
had  been  some  magical  talisman,  transformed  him  quickly  into  a 
master  falconer,  on  the  estate  of  the  parent  of  Fiorenza  ;  and  thus  he 
rode  side  by  side  with  her  whenever  she  went  a-fowling.  That  health- 
ful exercise  soon  restored  her  cheerfulness,  which,  towards  autumn,  on 
the  withering  of  her  flowers,  had  been  touched  with  melancholy ;  and 
she  pursued  her  new  pastime  with  as  much  eagerness  as  before.  She 
rode  always  beside  the  falconer,  as  constant  as  a  tassel-gentle  to  his 
lure  ;  whilst  Torrello  olten  forgot  to  recall  his  birds  from  their  flights. 
His  giddiness  and  inadvertence  at  last  procuring  his  dismissal,  the 
falcon  was  taken  from  his  finger,  which  Fiorenza  recompensed  with  a 
fresh  jewel,  to  console  him  for  his  disgrace. 

After  this  event,  there  being  neither  gardening  nor  fowling  to  amuse 
her,  the  languid  girl  fell  into  a  worse  melancholy  than  before,  that 
quite  disconcerted  her  parents.  After  a  consultation,  therefore,  between 
themselves,  they  sent  for  a  noted  physician  from  Turin,  in  spite  of  the 
opposition  of  Fiorenza,  who  understood  her  own  ailment  sufficiently 
to  know  that  it  was  desperate  to  his  remedies.  In  the  meantime 
his  visits  raised  the  anxiety  of  Torrello  to  such  a  pitch,  that  after 
languishing  some  days  about  the  mansion,  he  contrived  to  waylay 
the  doctor  on  his  return,  and  learned  from  him  the  mysterious 
nature  of  the  patient's  disease.  The  doctor  confessing  his  despair 
of  her  cure — 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,"  replied  Torrello  ;  "  I  know  well  her  complaint, 
and  without  any  miracle  will  enable  you  to  restore  her,  so  as  to  re- 
dound very  greatly  to  your  credit.  You  tell  me  that  she  will  neither 
«at  nor  drink,  and  cannot  sleep  if  she  would,  but  pines  miserably 
away,  with  a  despondency  which  must  end  in  either  madness  of 
ber  dissolution  :   whereas,  I   promise  you   she  shall   not  only  feed 

a  Y 


706  THE  THREE  JEWELS. 

heartily,  and  sleep  soundly,  but  dance  and  sing  as  merrily  as  yoa 

can  desire." 

He  then  related  confidentially  the  history  of  their  mutual  love,  and 
begged  earnestly  that  the  physician  would  devise  some  means  of  get- 
ting him  admitted  to  the  presence  of  his  mistress.  The  doctor  being 
a  yood-hearted  man,  was  much  moved  by  the  entreaties  of  Torrello, 
and  consented  to  use  his  ability. 

"  However,"  said  he,  "  I  ( an  think  of  no  way  but  one,  which  would 
displtase  you,  and  that  is,  that  you  should  personate  my  pupil,  and 
attend  upon  her  with  my  medicines." 

The  joyful  Torrello  assured  the  doctor,  "that  he  was  very  much 
mistaken  in  supposing  that  any  falsely-imagined  pride  could  overmas- 
ter the  vehemence  of  his  love  ; "  and  accordingly  putting  on  an  apron, 
with  the  requisite  habits,  he  repaired  on  his  errand  to  the  languishing 
Fiorenza.  She  recovered  very  speedily  at  his  presence — but  was  alto- 
gether well  again,  to  learn  that  thus  a  new  mode  was  provided  for  their 
interviews.  The  physician  thereupon  was  gratified  with  a  handsome 
present  by  her  parents,  who  allowed  the  assistant  likewise  to  contmue 
his  visits  till  he  had  earned  another  jewel  of  Fiorenza.  Prudence  at 
last  telling  them  that  they  must  abandon  this  stratagem,  they  prepared 
for  a  fresh  separation,  but  taking  leave  of  each  other  upon  a  time  too 
tenderly,  they  were  observed  by  the  father,  and  whilst  Torrello  was 
indign.intly  thrust  out  at  the  door,  Fiorenza  was  commanded,  with  a 
stern  rebuke,  to  her  own  chamber. 

The  old  lady  thereupon  asking  her  angry  husband  concerning  the 
cause  of  the  uproar,  he  told  her  that  he  had  caught  the  doctor's  man 
on  his  knees  to  Fiorenza. 

"  A  plague  take  him  ! "  said  he  ;  "'tis  the  trick  of  all  his  tribe,  with 
a  pretence  of  feeling  women's  pulses  to  steal  away  their  hands.  I 
marvel  how  meanly  the  jade  will  bestow  her  favour  next ;  but  it  will 
be  a  baser  varlet,  I  doubt,  than  a  gardener  or  a  falconer." 

"  The  falconer  ! "  said  the  mother ;  "  you  spoke  just  now  of  the 
doctor's  man." 

"Ay,"  quoth  he,  "but  I  saw  her  exchange  looks,  too,  with  the  fal- 
coner ;  my  heart  misgives  me,  that  we  shall  undergo  much  disgrace 
and  trouble  on  account  of  such  a  self-willed  and  forward  child." 

"Alas  !"  quoth  the  mother,  "it  is  the  way  of  young  women,  when 
they  are  crossed  in  the  man  of  their  liking  ;  they  grow  desperate  and 
careless  of  their  behaviour.  It  is  a  pity,  methinks,  we  did  not  let  her 
have  Torrello,  who,  with  all  his  faults,  was  a  youth  of  gentle  birth,  and 
niH  likely  to  disgrace  us  by  his  manners  ;  but  it  would  bring  me  down 
to  my  grave,  to  have  the  girl  debase  herself  with  any  of  these  common 
and  low-bred  people." 

Her  husband,  agreeing  in  these  sentiments,  they  concerted  how  to 
have  Torrello  recalled,  which  the  lady  undertook  to  man.ige,  so  as  to 
make  the  most  of  their  parental  indulgence  to  Fiorenza.  Accordingly, 
after  a  proper  lecture  on  her  indiscretions,  she  dictated  a  dutiful  letter 
to  her  lover,  who  came  very  joyfully  in  his  own  character  as  a  gentle- 
m  in,  and  a  time  was  appointed  for  the  wedding.  When  the  day  arrived, 
and  the  company  were  all  assembled,  the  mother,  who  was  very  Ivnx- 
»ighted,  espied  the  three  trinkets— namely,  a  ring,  a  clasp,  and  a  buckle 


GERONIMO  AND  GHISOLA.  fcff 

—on  the  person  of  Torrello,  that  had  belonged  to  her  dnuj^hter:  ho\v« 
ever,  before  she  could  put  any  questions,  he  took  Fiorenza  by  the  hand, 
and  spoke  as  follows  :-  - 

"  I  know  what  a  history  you  are^oing  to  tell  me  of  the  indiscretions 
of  Fiorenza  ;  and  that  the  several  jewels  you  regard  so  suspiciously, 
were  bestowed  by  her  on  a  gardener,  a  falconer,  and  a  doctor's  man. 
Those  three  knaves,  being  all  as  careless  and  improvident  as  myself, 
the  gifts  are  come,  as  you  perceive,  into  my  own  possession  ;  notwith- 
standing, lest  any  should  impeach,  therefore,  the  constancy  of  this 
excellent  lady,  let  them  know  that  I  will  maintain  her  honour  in  behalf 
of  myself,  as  well  as  of  those  other  three,  in  token  of  which  I  have  put 
on  their  several  jewels." 

The  parents  being  enlightened  by  this  discourse,  and  explaining  it 
to  their  friends,  the  young  people  were  married,  to  the  general  satis- 
faction ;  and  Fiorenza  confessed  herself  thrice  happy  with  the  gardener, 
the  falconer,  and  the  doctor  s  man. 


GERONIMO  AND   GHISOLA. 

THERE  are  many  tragical  instances  on  record,  of  cruel  parents 
who  have  tried  to  control  the  affections  of  their  children  ;  but 
as  well  might  they  endeavour  to  force  backwards  the  pure  mountain 
current  into  base  and  unnatural  channels.  Such  attempts,  whether  of 
sordid  parents  or  ungenerous  rivals,  redound  only  to  the  disgrace  of 
the  contrivers  ;  for  Love  is  a  jealous  deity,  and  commonly  avenges  him- 
self by  some  memorable  catastrophe. 

Thus  it  befell  to  the  ambitious  Marquis  of  Ciampolo,  when  he  aimed 
at  matching  his  only  daughter,  Ghisola,  with  the  unfortunate  Alfieri ; 
whereas  her  young  heart  was  already  devoted  to  her  faithful  Geronimo, 
a  person  of  gentle  birth  and  much  merit,  though  of  slender  estate. 
For  this  reason,  his  virtues  were  slighted  by  all  but  Ghisola,  who  had 
much  cause  to  grieve  at  her  father's  blindness  ;  for  Alfieri  was  a  proud 
and  jealous  man,  and  did  not  scorn  t«  disparage  his  rival  by  the  must 
unworthy  reports.  He  had,  indeed,  so  little  generosity,  that  althou;^h 
she  pleaded  the  prepossession  of  her  heart  by  another,  he  did  not  cease 
to  pursue  her  ;  and  finally,  the  Marquis,  discovering  the  reason  of  her 
rejection,  the  unhappy  Geronimo  was  imperatively  banished  from  her 
presence. 

In  this  extremity,  the  disconsolate  lovers  made  friends  with  a  vener- 
able oak  in  the  Marquis's  park,  which  presented  a  convenient  cavity 
for  the  reception  of  their  scrolls  ;  and  in  this  way,  this  aged  tree  be- 
came the  mute  and  faithful  confidant  of  their  secret  correspondence. 
Its  mossy  and  knotted  trunk  was  inhabited  by  several  squirrels,  and 
its  branches  by  various  birds  ;  and  in  its  gnarled  root  a  family  of  red 
ants  had  made  their  fortress,  which  afforded  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
Ghisola  to  stop  often  before  the  tree,  as  if  to  observe  their  curious  and 
instructive  labours.  In  this  manner  they  exchanged  their  fondest  pro- 
fessions, and  conveyed  the  dearest  aspirations  of  their  hearts  to  eack 
other. 


7o8  GE  RON  I  MO  AND  GHISOLA. 

But  love  is  a  purblind  and  imprudent  passion,  which,  like  the  ostrich, 

conceals  itself  from  its  proper  sense,  and  then  foolishly  imagines  that 
it  is  shrouded  from  all  other  eyes.  Thus,  whenever  Ghisola  walked 
abroad,  her  steps  wandered  by  attraction  to  the  self-same  spot,  her 
very  existence  seeming  linked,  like  the  life  of  a  dryad,  to  her  favour- 
ite tree.  At  last,  these  repeated  visits  attracting  the  curiosity  of  the 
vigilant  Alfieri,  his  mgenuity  soon  divined  the  cause  ;  and  warily  tak« 
ing  care  to  examine  all  the  scrolls  that  passed  between  them,  it  hap- 
pened that  seve-al  schemes,  which  they  plotted  for  a  secret  interview, 
were  vexatiously  disconcerted.  The  unsuspicious  lovers,  however,  at- 
tributed these  spiteful  disappointments  to  the  malice  of  chance  ;  and 
thus  their  correspondence  continued  till  towards  the  end  of  autumn, 
when  the  oak-tree  began  to  shed  its  last  withered  leaves  ;  but  Ghisola 
heeded  not,  so  long  as  it  afforded  those  other  ones,  which  were  more 
golden  in  her  eyes  tlmn  any  upon  the  boughs. 

One  evil  day,  however,  repairing  as  usual  to  the  cavity,  it  was  empty 
and  treasureless,  although  her  own  deposit  had  been  removed  as  here- 
tofore ;  and  the  dews  beneath,  it  appeared,  had  been  lately  brushed 
away  by  the  foot  of  her  dear  Geronimo.  She  knew,  notwithstanding, 
that  at  any  risk  he  would  not  so  have  grieved  her  ;  wherefore,  returning 
homewards  with  a  heavy  heart,  she  dreaded,  not  unreasonably,  that  she 
should  discover  what  she  pined  for  in  the  hands  of  her  incensed  father  ; 
but  being  deceived  in  this  expectation,  she  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
tears  and  despondence  ;  for,  rather  than  believe  any  negligence  of 
Geronimo,  she  resolved  that  he  must  have  met  with  some  tr.igical  ad- 
venture ;  wherefore  his  bleeding  ghost,  with  many  more  such  horrible 
phantasies,  did  not  fail  to  visit  her  in  her  thoughts  and  dreams. 

In  the  meantime,  Geronimo  was  in  equal  despair  at  not  having 
received  any  writings  from  Ghisola  ;  but  his  doubts  took  another  turn 
than  hers,  and  justly  alighted  on  the  treacherous  Alfieri.  At  the  first 
hints  of  his  suspicion,  therefore,  he  ran  to  the  house  of  his  rival,  where 
the  domestics  refused  positively  to  admit  him,  declaring  that  their 
master,  if  not  already  deceased,  was  upon  the  very  threshold  of  death. 
Geronimo  naturally  supposing  this  story  to  be  a  mere  subterfuge,  drew 
his  sword,  and  with  much  ado  forced  his  way  up  to  the  sick  man's 
chamber,  where  he  found  him  stretched  out  upon  a  couch,  and  covered 
from  head  to  heel  with  a  long  cloak.  The  noise  of  the  door  disturbing 
him,  Alfieri  uncovered  his  face,  and  looked  out  with  a  countenance  so 
horribly  puckered  by  anguish  and  distorted,  that  Geronimo  for  an 
instant' forgot  his  purpose,  but  recovering  himself  from  the  shock,  he 
asked  fiercely  for  the  letters. 

The  dying  wretch  answered  to  this  demand  with  a  deep  groan,  and 
removing  tiie  cloak,  he  showed  Geronimo  his  bare  arm,  which  was 
swelled  as  large  round  nearly  as  a  man's  body,  and  quite  black  and 
livid  to  the  shoulder  ;  but  the  hand  was  redder  in  colour,  and  merely 
a  lump  of  unshapely  flesii,  though  without  any  perceptible  wound. 

"  This,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  livid  member,  "  is  my  punishment 
for  a  deep  offence  to  you  ;  and  there  is  your  cruel  avenger." 

Geronimo,  turning  by  his  direction  towards  the  table,  at  first  sight 
discovered  nothing  deadly,  but  on  looking  within  a  little  silver  box,  he 
discovered  a  small  dead  scorpion,  the  bite  of  which,  in  our  climate,  is 


GERONIMO  AND  GHISOLA.  709 

frequently  mortal,  Alfieri  then  motioning  to  Cicronimo  to  come 
nearer,  jontinued  with  great  difficulty  in  these  words  : — 

"  There  is  a  certain  old  oak,  with  a  clei't  in  it,  in  the  Marquis's  pnrk, 
which  is  but  too  well  known  to  us  both.  My  evil  fortune  led  me  to 
discover  its  use  to  you  ;  and  my  baseness  to  abuse  that  knowledge,  for 
which  I  am  suffering  these  torments.  For  putting  my  guilty  hand 
into  the  hollow  for  your  papers,  which,  I  blush  to  confess,  were  my 
oliject,  I  was  stung  on  my  finger  by  this  accursed  reptile,  who  was 
lurking  in  the  bottom  of  the  hole.  I  have  killed  it,  as  you  see,  though 
my  own  anguish  commenced  with  its  destruction.  Notwithstanding, 
I  took  away  the  papers  and  ran  hither,  where,  on  lookin:^  at  my  hand, 
it  was  as  scarlet  as  my  shame  ;  and  my  arm  was  already  be.^inning  to 
swell  to  this  monstrous  size,  and  the  convulsed  muscles  «ere  all  ^vrith- 
ing  together  like  as  many  serpents.  And  now  my  pangs,  together  with 
the  fever  of  my  remorseless  mind,  have  brought  me  to  the  extremity 
you  behold."  Saying  which,  he  fell  into  a  fresh  fit  of  agony,  so  that 
the  sweat' issued  in  large  drops  from  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  turned 
in  their  sockets  with  nothing  but  the  whites  upon  Geronimo,  whose 
flesh  crept  all  over  with  compassion  and  dread. 

This  paroxysm  passing  over,  he  wiped  away  the  foam  from  his 
mouth,  and  began  to  speak  again,  but  in  a  much  weaker  voice  and  by 
syllables. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  "my  injuries  have  returned,  like  ardent  coals, 
upon  my  own  head.  I  designed  to  have  supplanted  you,  whereas  I 
am  myself  removed  from  my  place  on  the  earth.  Let  me  then  depart 
w  ith  your  forgiveness  for  the  peace  of  my  soul  ;  whilst,  on  my  part,  I 
make  you  amends  as  far  as  I  may.  And  first  of  all  take  this  box,  with 
its  fatal  contents,  to  the  Marquis,  and  bid  him  know  by  this  token  that 
God  was  adverse  to  our  will.  And  because  I  did  love,  though  vainly, 
let  all  my  possessions  be  laid  at  the  same  feet  where  I  used  to  kneel  ; 
and  beseech  her,  for  charity's  sake,  to  bestow  her  prayers  on  my  de- 
parted soul.  Tell  her  my  pangs  were  bitter,  and  my  fate  cruel,  except 
in  preserving  her  from  as  horrible  a  calamity."  He  then  fell  backwards 
again  upon  the  couch,  and  died. 

As  soon  as  he  was  laid  out,  Geronimo  went  and  delivered  the 
message  to  the  Marquis,  whom  he  found  chiding  with  Ghisola  for  her 
melancholy.  As  he  was  much  impressed  with  the  dreadful  scene  he 
had  witnessed,  he  described  it  very  eloquently,  so  that  both  of  his 
hearers  were  much  afi'ected,  and  especially  at  sight  of  the  box  with  the 
dead  scorpion.  It  cost  Ghisola  some  fresh  tears,  which  her  lover  did 
not  reprove,  to  be  told  of  the  expressions  which  related  to  herself, 
but  the  Marquis  was  still  more  shocked  at  the  relation,  a:nd  confessing 
that  it  was  the  judgment  of  Heaven,  he  no  longer  opposed  himself  to 
the  union  of  Ghisola  with  Geronimo.  He  then  caused  the  remains  of 
Alfieri  to  be  honourably  buried  ;  and  it  was  observed  that  Geronimc 
(hed  tlie  most  tears  of  any  one  that  wept  over  his  tomU 


wo 


THE   FALL    OF  THE  LEAF. 

THERE  IS  no  vice  that  causes  more  calamities  in  luinnn  life  than 
the  intemperate  passion  for  gaming.  How  many  noble  vuid 
ingenious  persons  it  hdth  reduced  irom  wealth  unto  poverty  ;  nay, 
from  honesty  to  dishonour,  and  by  still  descending  sieps  into  the  gulf 
of  perdition  !  And  yet  how  prevalent  it  is  in  all  capital  cities,  where 
many  of  the  chiefest  merchants,  and  courtiers  especially,  are  mere 
pitiful  slaves  of  Fortune,  toihng  like  so  many  abject  turnspits  in  her 
ignoble  wheel.  Such  a  man  is  worse  off  than  a  poor  borrower,  for  all 
he  has  is  at  the  momentary  call  ot  impL-rative  Chance  ;  or  rattier  he  is 
more  wretched  than  a  very  beggar,  being  mocked  with  an  appearance 
of  wealth,  but  as  deceitful  as  if  it  turned,  like  the  moneys  in  the  old 
Araljian  story,  into  decaying  leaves. 

In  our  parent  city  of  Rome,  to  aggravate  her  modern  disgraces,  this 
pestilent  vice  has  lately  fixed  her  abode,  and  has  iiiflicted  many  deep 
wounds  on  the  fame  and  fortunes  of  her  proudest  fimilies.  A  number 
of  noble  youths  have  been  sucked  into  the  ruinous  vortex,  some  of 
them  being  degraded  at  last  into  humble  retainers  upon  rich  men,  but 
the  most  part  perishing  by  an  unnatural  catastrophe  ;  and  if  the  same 
fate  did  not  befall  the  young  Marquis  de  Maiaspini,  it  was  only  by 
favour  of  a  circumstance  which  is  not  likely  to  happen  a  second  time 
for  any  gamester. 

This  gentleman  came  into  a  handsome  revenue  at  the  death  of  his 
parents,  whereupon,  to  dissipate  his  regrets,  he  travelled  abroad,  and 
his  graceful  manners  procured  him  a  distinguished  reception  at  several 
courts.  After  two  years  spent  in  this  manner  he  returned  to  Rome, 
where  he  had  a  magnificent  palace  on  the  b  .nks  of  the  1  iber,  and 
which  he  further  enriched  with  some  valuable  paintings  and  sculptures 
from  abroad.  His  taste  in  these  works  was  much  admired  ;  and  his 
friends  remarked  with  still  greater  satisfaction,  that  he  was  untainted 
by  the  courtly  vices  which  he  must  iiave  witnessed  in  his  travels.  It 
only  remained  to  complete  their  wishes,  that  he  should  form  a  matri- 
monial alliance  that  should  be  worthy  of  himself,  and  he  seemed  likely 
to  fulfil  this  ho|)e  in  attaching  himself  to  the  beautiful  Countess  of 
Maraviglia.  She  was  herself  the  heiress  of  an  ancient  and  honourable 
house  ;  so  that  the  match  was  regarded  with  satisfaction  by  the  rela- 
tions on  both  sides,  and  especially  as  the  )oung  pair  were  most 
tenderly  in  love  with  each  other. 

For  certain  reasons,  however,  the  nuptials  were  deferred  for  a  time, 
thus  affording  leisure  for  the  crafty  machinations  of  the  devil,  who 
delights,  aljove  all  things,  to  cross  a  virtuous  and  hai)py  marriage. 
Accordingly,  he  did  not  lail  to  make  use  of  this  judicious  opportunity, 
but  chose  tor  his  instrument  the  lady's  own  brother,  a  very  profligate 
and  a  gamester,  who  soon  lastened,  like  an  evil  genius,  on  the  unlucky 
Maiaspini. 

It  was  a  dismal  shock  to  the  lady,  when  she  learned  the  nature 
of  this  connection,  which  Maiaspini  himself  discovered  to  her,  by 
incautiously  dropping  a  die  from  his  pocket  in  her  presence.      Sh© 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAF.  yn 

hnmediately  endeavoured,  with  nil  her  influence,  to  reclaim  him  fmrn 
the  dreadful  passion  for  play,  which  had  now  crept  over  him  like  a 
moral  cancer,  and  already  disputed  the  sovereignly  of  love  ;  neither 
was  it  without  some  dreadful  struggles  of  remorse  on  his  own  part, 
and  simie  useless  victories,  that  he  at  last  gave  himself  up  to  such 
desperate  hi.bits,  but  the  power  of  his  Mephistoplieles  prevailed,  and 
the  visits  of  Malaspini  to  the  lady  of  his  affections  becjme  still  less 
frequent  ;  he  rep;iiring  instead  to  those  nightly  resorts  where  the 
greater  portion  of  his  estates  was  already  forfeited. 

At  length,  when  the  lady  had  not  seen  him  for  some  days,  and  in 
the  very  last  week  before  that  which  had  been  appointed  for  her 
marriage,  she  received  a  desperate  letter  from  Malaspini,  detlaring 
that  he  was  a  ruined  man  in  fortune  and  hope  ;  and  that  at  the  cost 
of  his  life  even,  he  must  renounce  her  hand  for  ever.  He  added,  that 
if  his  pride  would  let  him  even  propose  himself,  a  beggar  as  he  was, 
for  iier  acceptance,  he  should  yet  despair  too  much  of  her  pardon  to 
make  such  an  offer  ;  whereas,  if  he  could  have  read  in  tlie  heart  of  the 
unhappy  lady,  he  would  have  seen  that  she  still  preferred  the  beggar 
Malaspini  to  the  richest  nobleman  in  the  Popedom.  With  abundance 
of  tears  and  sighs  perusing  his  letter,  her  first  impulse  was  to  assure 
him  of  that  loving  truth  ;  and  to  offer  herself  with  her  estates  to  him, 
in  compensation  of  the  spites  of  Fortune  :  but  the  wretched  Malaspini 
had  withdrawn  himself  no  one  knew  whither,  and  she  was  constrained 
to  content  herself  with  grieving  over  his  misfortunes,  and  purchasing 
such  parts  of  his  property  as  were  exposed  for  sale  by  his  plunderers. 
And  now  it  became  apjiarent  what  a  villanous  part  his  betrayer  had 
taken  ;  for,  having  thus  stripped  the  unfortunate  gentleman,  he  now 
aimed  to  rob  him  of  his  life  also,  that  his  treacheries  might  remain 
undiscovered.  To  this  end  he  feigned  a  most  vehement  indignation 
at  Malaspini's  neglect  and  bad  faith,  ns  he  termed  it,  towards  his 
sister  ;  protesting  that  it  was  an  insult  to  be  only  washed  out  with  his 
blood  :  and  with  these  expressions,  he  sought  to  kill  him  at  any 
advantage.  And  no  doubt  he  would  have  become  a  murderer,  as 
well  as  a  dishonest  gamester,  if  Malaspini's  shame  and  anguish  had 
not  drawn  him  out  of  the  way;  for  he  had  hired  a  mean  lodging  in 
the  suburbs,  from  which  he  never  issued  but  at  dusk,  and  then  only 
to  wander  in  the  most  unfrequented  places. 

It  was  now  in  the  wane  of  autumn,  when  some  of  thednys  are  fine, 
and  gorgeously  decorated  at  morn  and  eve  by  the  rich  sun's  embroi- 
deries ;  but  others  are  dewy  and  dull,  with  cold  nipping  winds, 
inspiring  comfortless  fancies  and  thoughts  of  melancholy  in  every 
bosom.  In  such  a  dreary  hour,  Malaspini  happened  to  walk  .ibro.id, 
and  avoiding  his  own  squandered  estates,  which  it  was  not  easy  to 
do  by  reason  of  their  extent,  he  wandered  into  a  by-place  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  place  was  very  lonely  and  desolate,  and  without 
any  near  habitation  ;  its  main  feature  especially  being  a  large  tree, 
now  stripped  bare  of  its  vernal  honours,  excepting  one  dry  \el!ow  leaf, 
which  was  shaking  ma  topmost  bough  to  the  cold  evening  wind,  and 
threatening  at  every  moment  to  fall  to  the  damp,  dewy  earth.  Before 
this  dreary  object  Malaspini  stopped  some  time  in  contemplation, 
commenting  to  himself  on  the  desolate  tree,  and  drawing  many  ap< 


yi9  THE  FALL  OF  THE  LEAP. 

comparisons    between    its    nakedness    and    his  own  beggarly  con* 
dition. 

"Alas  !  poor  bankrupt,"  says  he,  "thou  hast  been  plucked  too  like 
me ;  but  yet  not  so  basely.  Thou  hast  but  showered  thy  green  leaves 
on  the  grateful  earth,  which  in  another  season  will  repay  thee  with  sap 
and  sustenance  ;  but  those  whom  I  have  fattened  will  not  so  much  as 
lend  again  to  my  living.  Thou  wilt  thus  regain  all  thy  green  summer 
wealth,  which  1  shall  never  do  ;  and  besides,  thou  art  still  better  off 
than  I  am,  with  that  one  golden  leaf  to  cheer  thee,  whereas  I  have 
been  stripped  even  of  my  last  ducat  !  " 

With  these  and  many  more  similar  fancies  he  continued  to  aggrieve 
himself,  till  at  last,  being  more  sad  than  usual,  his  thoughts  tended 
unto  death,  and  he  resolved,  still  watching  that  yellow  leaf,  to  take  its 
flight  as  the  signal  for  his  own  departure. 

"  Chance,"  said  he,  "  hath  been  my  temporal  ruin,  and  so  let  it  now 
determine  for  me  in  my  last  cast  between  life  and  death,  which  is  all 
that  its  malice  hath  left  me." 

Thus,  in  his  extremity  he  still  risked  somewhat  upon  Fortune  ;  and 
very  shortly  the  leaf  being  torn  away  by  a  sudden  blast,  it  made  two 
or  three  flutterings  to  and  fro,  and  at  last  settled  on  the  earth,  at 
about  a  hundred  paces  from  the  tree.  Malaspini  instantly  interpreted 
this  as  an  omen  that  he  ought  to  die  ;  and  following  the  leaf  till  it 
alighted,  he  fell  to  work  on  the  same  spot  with  his  sword,  intending 
to  scoop  himself  a  sort  of  rude  hollow  for  a  grave.  He  found  a 
strange  gloomy  pleasure  in  this  fanciful  design,  that  made  him  labour 
very  earnestly,  and  the  soil  besides  being  loose  and  sandy,  he  had 
soon  cleared  away  about  a  foot  below  the  surface.  The  earth  then 
became  suddenly  more  obstinate,  and  trying  it  here  and  there  with 
his  sword,  it  struck  against  some  very  hard  substance  ;  whereupon, 
digging  a  little  further  down,  he  discovered  a  considerable  treasure. 

There  were  coins  of  various  nations,  but  all  golden,  in  this  petty 
mine  ;  and  in  such  quantity  as  made  Malaspini  doubt,  for  a  moment, 
if  it  were  not  the  mere  mintage  of  his  fancy.  Assuring  himself,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  no  dream,  he  gave  many  thanks  to  God  for  this  timely 
providence  ;  notwithstanding,  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  to  deliberate 
whether  it  was  honest  to  avail  himself  of  the  money  ;  but  believing,  as 
w.s  most  probable,  that  it  was  the  plunder  of  some  banditti,  he  was 
reconciled  to  the  appropriation  of  it  to  his  own  necessities. 

Loading  himself,  therefore,  with  as  much  gold  as  he  could  con- 
veniently carry,  he  hastened  with  it  to  his  huml)le  quarters;  and  by 
making  two  or  three  more  trips  in  the  course  of  the  night,  he  made 
himself  master  of  the  whole  treasure.  It  was  sufficient,  on  being 
reckoned,  to  maintain  him  in  comfort  for  the  rest  of  his  life  ;  but  not 
being  able  to  enjoy  it  in  the  scene  of  his  humiliations,  he  resolved  to 
reside  abroad  ;  and  embarking  in  an  English  vessel  at  Naples,  he  was 
carried  over  safely  to  London. 

It  is  held  a  deep  disgrace  amongst  our  Italian  nobility  for  a  gentle- 
man to  meddle  either  with  trade  or  commerce  ;  and  yet,  as  v  e  behold, 
they  will  condescend  to  retail  their  own  produce,  and  wine  especially 
— yea,  marry,  and  with  an  empty  barrel,  like  any  vintner's  sign,  hung 
tut  at  their  stately  palaces.     Malaspini  perhaps  disdained  from  the 


BARANGA.  713 

first  these  illiberal  prejudices  ;  or  else  he  was  taught  to  renounce  them 
by  the  example  of  the  London  merchants,  whom  he  saw  in  that  great 
mart  of  the  world,  engrossing  the  universal  seas,  and  enjoying  the 
power  and  importance  of  princes,  merely  from  fruits  of  their  traffic. 
At  any  rate,  he  embarked  what  money  he  possessed  in  various  mer- 
cantile adventures,  which  ended  so  profitably,  that  in  three  years  he 
had  regained  almost  as  large  a  fortune  as  he  had  formerly  inherited. 
He  then  speedily  returned  to  his  native  country,  and  redeeming  his 
paternal  estates,  he  was  soon  in  a  worthy  condition  to  present  himself 
to  his  beloved  Countess,  who  was  still  single,  and  cherished  him  with  all 
a  woman's  devotedness  in  her  constant  affection.  They  were  therefore 
before  long  united,  to  the  contentment  of  all  Rome  ;  her  wicked 
relation  having  been  slain  some  time  before,  in  a  brawl  with  his 
associates. 

As  for  the  fortunate  windfall  which  had  so  befriended  him,  Malaspini 
founded  with  it  a  noble  hospital  for  orphans  ;  and  for  this  reason,  that 
it  belonged  formerly  to  some  fatherless  children,  from  whom  it  had 
been  withheld  by  their  unnatural  guardian.  This  wicked  man  it  was 
who  had  buried  the  money  in  the  sand :  but  when  he  found  that  his 
treasure  was  stolen,  he  went  and  hanged  himself  on  the  very  tree  that 
had  caused  its  discovery. 


BARANGA, 

IT  has  been  well  said,  that  if  there  be  no  marriages  made  up  in 
heaven,  there  are  a  great  many  contrived  in  a  worse  place  ;  the 
devil  having  a  visible  hand  in  some  matches,  which  turn  out  as  mis- 
chievous and  miserable  as  he  could  desire.  Not  that  I  mean  here  to 
rail  aj^ainst  wedlock,  the  generality  of  such  mockers  falling  into  its 
worst  scrapes  ;  but  my  mind  is  just  now  set  upon  such  contracts  as 
that  of  the  Marquis  Manfredi  with  Baranga,  who  before  the  year  was 
out  devised  his  death. 

This  woman,  it  has  been  supposed  by  those  who  remember  her 
features,  was  a  Jewess, —  which,  in  a  Catholic  country,  the  Marquis 
would  be  unwilling  to  acknowledge, — however,  he  affirmed  that  he  had 
brought  her  from  the  kiny,dom  of  Spain.  She  was  of  the  smallest  fig- 
ure that  was  ever  known,  and  very  beautiful,  but  of  as  impatient  and 
fiery  a  temper  as  the  cat-a-mountains  of  her  own  country;  never  hesi- 
tating, in  her  anger,  at  any  extremes, — neither  sparing  her  own  beau- 
tiful hair  nor  her  richest  dresses,  which  she  sometimes  tore  into  shreds 
with  her  passionate  hands.  At  such  times  she  confirmed  but  too 
plausibly  her  imputed  sisterhood  with  Jael  and  Deborah,  and  those 
tr  iditional  Hebrew  women  who  faltered  not  even  at  acts  of  blood  ;  and 
vho  could  not  have  looked  more  wildly  at  their  tragedies  than  she, 
when  she  stood  in  her  splendid. rags,  with  her  eyes  flashing  as  darkly 
and  as  dangerously  as  theirs. 

As  soon  as  she  arrived  in  Italy,  her  fatal  beauty  captivated  a  number 
ofunliapjiy  youths,  who  were  led  by  her  waywardness  into  the  most 
painful  adventures  ;  some  of  them  suffering  by  encounters  amongst 


ri4  SARANGA. 

themselves,  and  others  by  the  conversion  of  her  ficTcle  favour  into 

hatred  and  scorn.  Manfredi  suspected  little  of  these  mischiefs,  till  at 
last  the  season  of  the  Carnival  drew  nigh,  when  fearin;^;  the  influence 
of  that  long  revel  of  pleasure  and  dissipation  upon  her  mind,  he  with- 
drew with  her  to  his  country-seat,  which  was  about  nine  leaj^^ues  distant 
from  Rome.  Thither  she  was  followed  by  one  of  her  gallants,  named 
V^itelli,  a  ferocious  and  dissolute  man,  and  whom  it  is  believed  she 
engnged  to  pursue  her,  not  so  much  for  personal  liking,  as  in  the  hope 
of  his  assistance  to  relieve  her  from  this  irksome  retirement.  Her 
temper,  in  the  meantime,  being  irritated  by  such  restraint,  grew  every 
day  more  fierce  and  desperate — her  cries  often  resounded  through  the 
house,  which  was  strewed  with  fresh  tokens  of  her  fury.  With  what- 
ever grief  the  Marquis  beheld  these  paroxysms,  he  comforted  himsL-H 
by  a  fond  reliance  on  her  affection,  and  endeavoured  by  the  most  ten- 
der assiduities  to  console  her  for  the  disappointment  he  had  inflicted. 
The  moment  of  her  arrival  in  the  country,  therefore,  he  pre-enied  her, 
as  a  peace-offering,  with  a  pair  of  superb  ear-rings  ;  but  he  quickly 
beheld  her  with  her  ears  dropping  blood,  and  the  jewels,  which  she 
had  violently  plucked  away,  lying  trampled  on  tlie  floor. 

It  was  common  for  such  scenes  to  happen  whenever  they  encoun- 
tered ;  and  in  consequence  their  meetings,  by  mutual  care,  were  more 
and  more  avoided,  till  they  almost  lived  asunder  in  the  same  house. 
In  the  meintime,  Baranga  did  not  forget  her  desire  to  be  present  at 
the  Carnival,  but  contrived  several  stolen  interviews  with  Viielli  ;  after 
which  her  manner  changed  abruptly  from  its  usual  violence  to  a  gentler 
and  thoughtful  demeanour,  her  hours  being  chiefly  spent  solitarily  in 
her  own  chamber.  Above  all,  she  never  mentioned  tiie  Carnival, 
which  had  been  till  then  her  constant  subject,  but  seemed  rather  to 
resign  herself  quietly  to  the  wishes  of  her  husband,  who,  seeing  her 
so  docile,  repented  in  his  heart  of  having  ever  crossed  her  pleasure. 

It  was  in  those  infamous  times  that  the  hell-born  fashion  of  empoi- 
somnent  spread  itself  throughout  Italy  like  a  contagious  pestilence,  and 
to  the  everlasting  scandal  of  our  history  was  patronised  and  protected 
by  the  rich  and  great.  Thus  there  were  various  professors  of  the 
infernal  art,  who  taught,  by  their  damnable  compounds,  how  to  ravish 
away  life  either  suddenly  or  by  languishing  stages  ;  and  many  persons 
of  note  and  quality  became  their  disciples,  to  the  endless  perdition  of 
their  souls,  or  at  best,  to  the  utter  hardening  of  their  hearts,  according 
as  they  were  prompted  in  their  experiments  by  unlawful  curiosity,  or 
by  more  black  and  malignant  motives.  Whilst  some  practised,  tliere- 
fore,  on  the  bodies  of  dogs  and  cats,  and  such  mean  animals,  there 
were  not  wanting  others  who  used  their  diabolical  sUill  upon  human 
relations  that  were  obnoxious,  and  the  names  of  many  such  victims 
are  recorded,  though  the  fate  of  a  still  greater  number  was  hinted  only 
by  popular  suspicion. 

To  one  of  these  vile  agents,  then,  the  base  Vitelli  addressed  himself; 
and  the  secret  studies  of  Baranga  were  guided  by  his  direction.  Whilst 
the  Marquis  was  hoping  in  the  v\holesome  results  of  a  temporary 
melancholy  and  seclusion,  which  have  made  some  minds  so  nobly 
philosophise,  her  guilty  lovely  hands  were  tampering  with  horrid 
chemistry  ;  and  her  meditations  busy  with  the  most  black  and  deadlji 


BARANGA.  yi| 

lyrups.     Tliere  is  a  trnditional  picture  of  her  thus  occupied  in  her 

chamber,  with  the  apparition  of  Dt;all)  at  lier  elbow,  whilst  with  h(.r 
bla^k  and  piercing  e>es  slie  is  watching  the  niait)rdom  of  a  Hitle  bird, 
that  is  peiishing  from  her  Circean  cotnpoLinds. 

And  now  we  may  suppose  Manfredi  to  be  doomed  as  the  next  victim 
of  her  pernicious  craft — who,on  his  part,  was  too  unsuspicious  to  re- 
ject anything  which  she  might  tender  to  him  with  her  infinitely  small 
and  delicate  white  hand.  And  assuredly  the  appointment  of  his  death 
was  not  far  distant,  when  the  jealousy  of  the  disappointed  suitors  of 
Baranga  presented  her  design.  They  had  not  omitted  to  place  some 
spies  over  her  movements  :  wherefore,  on  the  eve  of  the  Carnival, 
Manfredi  was  advised  by  a  letter  in  an  unknown  hand,  that  she  had 
concerted  with  Vitelli  her  elopement  to  Rome,  and  in  a  nun's  habit, 
as  he  might  convince  himself  with  little  pains,  by  an  inspection  of  her 
wardrobe. 

Manfredi  was  not  a  person  to  shut  his  eyes  wilfully  against  the 
light,  but  recalled  with  some  uneasiness  her  mysterious  seclusion. 
He  chose  a  time,  therefore,  when  Baranga  was  absent,  to  visit  her 
w.irdrobe,  where  if  he  did  not  discover  the  nun's  habit,  he  found  a  com- 
plete suit  of  new  sables,  which  had  been  prepared  by  her  in  anticipa- 
tion of  her  widowhood.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  witli  what  horror  he 
shrunk  aghast  at  this  dreary  evidence  of  her  malignity,  which  \et  was 
not  fully  confirmed,  till  he  had  broken  into  her  unholy  study,  and  lo  ! 
there  lay  the  dead  bird,  beside  some  samples  of  her  diabolical  chemistry, 
upon  a  table.  There  were  lying  about  baneful  hellebore,  and  night- 
shade, and  laurel,  and  such  poisonous  herbs,  and  I  know  not  what 
deadly  resins  and  gums,  whether  in  syrups  or  as  drugs,  together  with 
divers  venomous  styles  and  iinbued  needles  for  the  infliction  of  death  ; 
yea,  even  subtle  and  impalpable  powders  to  be  inhaled  by  the  sleeping 
with  tiie  vital  air,  to  such  a  villanous  pitch  those  curst  empoisoners 
had  carried  their  speculative  inventions. 

Manfredi  knew  too  well  the  import  of  these  dreadful  symptoms,  to 
doubt  any  longer  of  her  purpose  ;  however,  he  touched  nothing,  lait 
■vith  a  dreadful  stern  composure  returned  down-st.iirs,  and  sending 
for  a  trusty  domestic,  commanded  him  to  go  instantly  for  a  shroud. 
The  man,  obeying  this  strange  order  without  any  comment,  in  an  hour 
returned  with  the  deathly  garment,  which  the  Marquis  with  his  own 
huids  then  hung  up  in  the  wardrobe,  beside  the  widow's  weeds,  and  in 
that  plight  left  it  for  the  discovery  of  Baranga. 

And  truly  this  was  but  a  timely  proceeding,  for  in  that  very  hour 
she  conceited  with  Vitelli  to  poison  her  husb.md  at  supper  with  a  dish 
of  sweetmeats  ;  after  which  she  returned  home,  and  was  first  startled 
by  the  stern  silence  of  Manfredi,  who  turned  from  htr  without  a 
syllable.  Her  wretched  guilty  heart  immediately  smote  her,  and  run- 
ning up  to  her  devilish  sanctuary,  she  saw  that  it  had  been  invaded  ; 
but  how  much  more  was  she  shocked  upon  sight  of  a  dreary  and 
awlul  shroud  hanging  beside  those  premature  weeds,  which  it  warned 
her  she  was  never  to  put  on  !  In  a  frenzy  of  desi)air,  therefore,  turn- 
ing her  own  cruel  arms  ai^ninst  herself,  she  swallowed  one  of  the  most 
deadly  of  her  preparations,  and  casting  herself  down  on  the  floor,  with 
a  horrible  ghastly  countenance  awaited  the  same  dreadful  pangs  which 


f  l6  THE  EXILE. 

she  had  so  lately  witnessed  on  the  poisoned  bird.  And  now,  doubt* 
less,  it  came  bitterly  over  her,  what  fenrful  flutterings  she  had  seen  it 
mnke,  and  throbs,  and  miserable  gaspings  of  its  dying  beak  ;  and  even 
as  the  bird  had  perished,  so  did  she. 

There  was  no  one  bold  enough  to  look  upon  her  last  agonies  ;  but 
when  she  was  silent  and  still,  the  Marquis  came  in  and  wept  over  her 
ill-starred  body,  which  had  been  brought  by  its  ungovernable  spirit  to 
so  frightful  a  dissolution. 


THE  EXILE, 

IN  the  reign  of  King  Charles  the  Fifth  of  Spain,  there  lived  in  Mnd- 
rid  a  gentleman,  who  being  of  a  fair  reputation  and  an  ample 
fortune,  obtained  in  marriage  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  councillors 
of  state.  He  had  not  lived  long  thus  happily,  when  one  day  his  father- 
in-law  returned  from  the  council,  with  a  countenance  full  of  dismay, 
and  informed  him  that  a  secret  accusation  of  treason  had  been  pre- 
ferred against  him. 

"  Now,  I  know,"  said  he,  "  that  you  are  incapable  of  so  great  a  wicked- 
ness, not  merely  from  the  loyalty  of  your  nature,  but  because  you  can- 
not be  so  cruel  as  to  have  joined  in  a  plot  which  was  directed  agnmst 
my  own  life  as  well  as  others  :  yet,  not  knowing  how  far  the  mr.lice 
of  your  enemies  might  prevail,  for  your  marriage  lias  made  foes  of  many 
who  were  before  your  rivals,  I  would  advise  you  to  a  temporary  flight. 
Time,  which  discovers  all  m\steries,  will  then,  in  some  happier  season, 
unravel  the  plot  which  is  laid  against  your  life  :  but  at  present,  the 
prejudice  against  you  is  hot,  and  the  danger  therefore  is  imminent." 

To  this  the  gentleman  replied,  that  as  he  should  answer  to  God  in 
judgment,  he  was  innocent,  and  altogether  ignorant  of  the  treason  im- 
puted to  him  ;  and  therefore,  being  conscious  of  his  innocence,  and 
besides,  so  recently  married,  he  preferred  rather  to  remain  in  the  king- 
dom and  await  the  issue  of  his  trial.  The  danger,  however,  became 
more  pressing  with  every  hour,  and,  finally,  the  advice  of  the  councillor 
prevailed.  The  unfortunate  gentleman,  accordingly,  took  a  hasty  but 
most  affectionate  farewell  of  his  young  wife  ;  and  with  a  heavy  heart 
emV)arked  on  board  a  foreign  merchant  vessel  that  was  bound  for  the 
Gulf  of  Venice.  The  councillor  was  immediately  arrested  and  thrown  in 
prison,  as  having  been  an  accessary  to  his  son-in-law's  escape  ;  but 
being  afterwards  set  free,  he  was  still  watched  so  vigilantly  by  the 
spies  of  the  accusers,  that  he  could  not  safely  engage  in  any  cor- 
respondence with  his  relation. 

In  this  manner  nearly  two  years  passed  away;  till  at  length  the 
miserable  exile  grew  so  impatient  of  his  condition,  that  he  resolved  to 
return,  even  at  whatever  hazard  to  his  life.  Passing,  therefore,  by  way 
of  France  into  Spain,  and  taking  care  to  disguise  himself  so  effectually 
that  he  could  not  be  recognised  by  his  oldest  acquaintance,  he  arrived  in 
safety  at  a  village  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Madrid.  There  he  learned, 
for  the  first  time,  that  his  father-in-law  had  been  disgraced  and 
amerced  so  heavily,  that  being  of  a  proud  spirit  and  unable  to  endure 


THE  EXILE.  717 

his  reverses,  he  had  died  of  a  broken  heart :  and  moreover,  that  his 
daughter  was  presently  living  in  the  capital  in  the  greatest  affliction. 
At  these  melancholy  tidings,  he  repented  more  than  ever  that  he  had 
quitted  Spam,  and  resolved  to  repair  to  his  wife  without  any  further  delay. 

Now  it  chanced  in  the  village  where  he  was  resting,  that  he  had  a 
very  dear  friend,  named  Rodrigo,  who  had  been  his  schoolmate,  and 
was  as  dear  to  him  as  a  brother  ;  and  going  to  his  house  at  sunset, 
he  discovered  himself  to  the  other,  and  besought  him  to  go  before  to 
Madrid,  and  prepare  his  dear  wife  for  his  arrival.  "And  now,  remem- 
ber," said  he,  "  that  my  life,  and  not  only  mine,  but  my  dear  lady's 
also,  depends  upon  your  breath  ;  and  if  you  frame  it  into  any  speech, 
so  imprudently  as  to  betray  me,  I  vow  by  our  Holy  Lady  of  Loretto, 
that  I  will  eat  your  heart  ;"  and  with  this  and  still  stranger  expr..s- 
sions,  he  conducted  himself  so  wildly,  as  to  show  that  his  misfortunes, 
and  perhaps  some  sickness,  had  impaired  the  healthiness  of  his  brain. 
His  friend,  however,  like  a  prudent  man,  concealed  this  observation  ; 
but  unlocking  his  library,  and  saying  that  there  was  store  of  entertain- 
ment in  his  absence,  he  departed  on  his  mission. 

On  Rodrigo's  arrival  at  the  lady's  house,  she  was  seated  on  a  sofa, 
and,  as  if  to  divert  her  cares,  was  busied  in  some  embroidery  ;  but 
every  now  and  then  she  stayed  her  needle  to  wipe  off  a  tear  that 
gathered  on  her  long  dark  eyelashes,  and  sometimes  to  gaze  for 
minutes  together  on  a  small  portrait  which  lay  before  her  on  a  table 
"Alas!"  she  said  to  the  picture,  "we  two  that  should  have  lived 
together  so  happily,  to  be  thus  asunder  ;  but  absence  has  made  room 
for  sorrow  to  come  between  us,  and  it  slays  both  our  hearts  :"  and  as 
she  complained  thus,  Rodrigo  joyfully  entered  and  began  to  unfold  to 
her  his  welcome  tidings. 

At  first,  the  sorrowful  lady  paid  scarcely  any  attention  to  his  words, 
but  so  soon  as  she  comprehended  that  it  concerned  her  dear  husband's 
arrival,  she  could  hardly  breathe  for  joy. 

"  What !  shall  I  behold  him  here,  in  this  very  spot ;  nay  here,"  said 
she,  pressing  her  hands  vehemently  upon  her  bosom  :  "  I  pray  thee  do 
not  mock  me,  for  my  life  is  so  flown  into  this  hope,  that  they  must  die 
together  if  you  deceive  me  ;"  and  only  at  the  entrance  of  that  doubt 
she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  But  being  assured  that  the  news  was 
indeed  true,  and  that  her  husband  would  presently  be  with  her,  she 
clasped  her  hands  passionately  together,  and  crying  out  that  joy  was 
as  hard  to  bear  as  grief,  besought  Heaven  that  it  might  not  madden 
her  before  he  came,  and  then  began  to  weep  again  as  violently  as 
before.  Upon  this,  Rodrigo  reproving  her,  she  excused  herself,  saying 
"that  a  dream  which  had  troubled  her  in  the  night,  had  overpowered 
her  weak  spirits." 

"  And  in  truth,"  said  she,  "  it  was  very  horrible  ;  for  my  dear  hus- 
band appeared  to  me  like  a  phantom,  and  laid  his  cold  hand  upon 
mine,  like  a  fall  of  snow  ;  and  he  asked  me  if  I  was  afraid  of  him,  that 
I  shuddered  so,  and  I  answered  him,  '  God  forbid  !  but  yet  your  voice, 
methinks,  is  not  your  own,  nor  so  gentle, — but  very  fierce,  and  there  is 
H  strange  light  instead  of  love  in  your  eyes.'  And  he  said,  'This  voice 
truly  is  not  my  own,  nor  the  shining  of  my  eyes  ;  but  the  serpent's 
tvithin  me,  who  hath  devoured  my  brain  ;  and  when  he  looks  out  upon 


7i8  THE  EXILE. 

thee,  he  will  kill  thee,  for  he  does  not  love  thee  as  I  used,  neither  \\ 
there  any  remorse  in  his  heart.'  As  he  spoke  thus,  I  saw  a  Hi^ht  shin- 
ing in  his  skull,  and  wild  strange  eyes  looking  forth  through  his  eyes  : 
so  that  I  cried  out  with  terror,  and  awaked.  But  ever  since  this  dream 
has  haunted  me,  and  even  now,  as  you  see,  I  cannot  quite  get  rid  of  its 
depression." 

At  the  nature  of  this  dream  Don  Rodrigo  could  scarcely  forbear 
from  shuddering,  for  he  doubted  not  that  the  serpent  signified  the 
madness  which  he  had  observed  about  his  friend,  and  that  the  vision 
itself  was  but  the  type  of  some  impending  calamity  ;  nevertheless,  he 
sulidued  his  own  fears  before  the  lady,  and  endeavoured  to  divert  her 
thoughts  till  the  arrival  of  her  husband. 

After  a  tedious  interval,  at  length  the  door  w^s  suddenly  flung  open, 
and  he  leaped  in  ;  and  rushing  to  his  wife,  they  embraced  in  silence 
for  several  sweet  minutes,  till  separating  a  little,  that  they  might  gaze 
on  each  other,  the  lady  remarked  that  his  arm  was  bound  up  m  a 
bloody  handkerchief. 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  perceiving  her  alarm  ;  "  it  is  no  very  grievous  hurt, 
though  I  have  been  assailed  by  robbers  in  my  way  hither  :  but,  alas  ! 
what  greater  injury  hath  grief  wrought  upon  thee  !  "  for  with  her 
maidenly  figure,  she  had  all  the  careful  countenance  of  a  matron  in 
years. 

Indeed,  it  was  easy  to  conceive  how  their  heaj'ts  had  suffered  and 
hungered  for  each  other  by  their  present  passionate  endearments,  for 
they  soon  crowded  into  a  few  short  mmutes  all  the  ho.irded  affection 
of  years.  But  such  joy  as  theirs  is  often  but  the  brief  wonder  of 
unhappy  lives  ;  and  so,  in  the  very  summit  of  delight,  they  were  mter- 
rupted  by  Don  Rodrigo,  who,  with  looks  full  of  terror,  decl.ired  that 
the  house  was  beset  by  the  police,  and  presently  a  loud  knocking  was 
heard  at  the  outer  gates.  At  this  alarm,  the  two  unfortunates  started 
asunder,  and  listened  till  they  heard  even  the  throbbings  of  their  own 
fearful  hearts.  But  at  the  second  knocking,  the  gentleman,  quilting 
his  wife,  and  drawing  his  sword,  stared  wildly  about  him  with  eyes 
that  seemed  to  flasli  out  sparkles  of  unnatural  fire. 

"Ha!"  said  he,  casting  a  terrible  glance  upon  Rodrigo;  "have  I 
sold  my  life  to  such  a  devil?"  and  suddenly  springing  upon  him  and 
tearing  him  down  to  the  ground,  he  thrust  his  sword  fiercely  into  his 
bosom. 

And  indeed  it  seemed  but  too  reasonnble  that  Rodrigo,  who  alone 
had  known  the  secret  of  the  exile's  arrival,  had  betrayed  him  to  the 
Government.  Notwithstanding,  at  the  first  flush  of  the  blood,  as  it 
gushed  out  as  if  in  reproach  of  the  weapon,  the  gentleman  made  an 
effurt  to  raise  his  friend  again  from  the  floor  ;  but  in  the  meantime 
the  police  had  enforced  their  entrance,  and  now  made  him  their 
prisoner  without  any  resistance.  He  begged  merely  that  his  arms 
might  be  left  unbound,  but  immediately  attempting  in  his  frenzy  to 
do  some  injury  to  his  wife,  and  reviling  her,  through  madness,  with 
the  very  venom  and  aspect  of  a  serpent,  the  officers  hurried  him 
instantly  to  his  prison.  Ail  the  time  that  he  was  being  fettered  he 
sei  mcd  quite  unconscious,  and  altogether  in  some  dream  foreign  to 
\i&  condition ;  but  as  the  door  closed  and  the  bolts  gratiid  harshly  oo 


THE  EXILE.  yt9 

the  outside,  he  recovered  his  senses,  and  made  answer  with  a  deep 
groan. 

At  first  he  believed  he  had  no  company  in  his  misery,  but  presently 
he  heard  a  rustling  of  straw,  with  a  clanking  of  chains  in  one  Corner 
of  the  dungeon,  which  was  a  very  dark  one,  and  a  man  in  irons  came 
up  slowly  towards  the  grate.  The  little  light  sufficed  to  show  that  his 
countenance  was  a  very  horrid  one,  although  hidden  for  the  most  part 
\x\  his  black,  bushy  hair  ;  and  he  had  besides  but  one  eye  :  by  which 
tokens  the  gentleman  readily  recognised  him  as  one  of  the  banditti 
who  had  set  upon  him  in  the  forest. 

"  So,  senor,"  said  he,  "  I  perceive  that  one  foul  night  has  netted  us 
both  ;  and  therein  I  have  done  to  thee  one  more  injury  than  I  designed ; 
but  my  plunder  has  all  gone  before  the  council,  and  along  with  it  thy 
papers  :  so  if  there  be  aught  treasonable  in  them  that  brings  thee  to 
this  cage,  my  ill-luck  must  be  blamed  for  it,  which  is  likely  to  bring  us 
both  to  the  same  gallows." 

At  this  discourse  the  gentleman  fell  into  a  fresh  frenzy,  but  less  of 
madness  than  of  bitter  grief  and  remorse  :  every  word  avenging  upon 
him  the  stab  which  he  had  inflicted  on  his  dear  friend  Rodri;40.  He 
cast  himself,  therefore,  on  the  hard  floor,  and  would  have  dashed  his 
tortured  brains  against  the  stones,  but  for  the  struggles  of  the  robber, 
who,  hard-hearted  and  savage  as  he  had  been  by  profession,  was  yet 
touched  with  strange  pity  at  the  sight  of  so  passionate  a  grief.  It 
settled  upon  him  afterwards  to  a  deep  dejection,  and  in  this  condition, 
after  some  weeks'  confinement,  the  wretched  gentleman  was  finally 
released  without  any  trial,  by  an  order  of  the  council.  This  change, 
however,  which  should  have  been  a  blessing  to  any  other,  produced  no 
alleviation  of  his  malady.  It  was  nothing  in  the  world  to  him  that  he 
was  free  to  revisit  its  sunshine,  and  partake  of  all  its  natural  deli;;hts, 
and  above  all,  enjoy  the  consolations  and  the  sweets  of  domestic 
affection.  Though  there  was  one  ever  gazing  upon  him  with  an 
almost  breaking  heart,  he  neither  felt  his  own  misery  nor  hers,  but 
looked  upon  all  things  with  an  eye  bright  and  fiery  indeed  at  times  ; 
but  not,  like  the  stars,  illuminate  vvith  knowledge. 

In  this  mood  he  would  sit  for  hours  with  his  arms  folded,  and  gaz- 
ing upon  the  vacant  air,  sighing  sometimes,  but  never  conscious  ot 
the  presence  of  his  once  beloved  wife,  who  sat  before  him,  and  watched  . 
his  steadfast  countenance,  till  she  wept  at  his  want  of  sympathy. 
Day  passed  after  day,  and  ni;^ht  after  night,  but  there  was  no  change 
in  the  darkness  of  his  mind,  till  one  morning,  as  he  sat,  his  reason  as 
it  were  returned  upon  him  like  the  dawn  of  day,  when  the  sky  is  first 
streaked  with  light,  and  the  world  gains  a  weak  intelligence  of  the 
things  that  are  in  it.  He  had  been  looking  for  some  mmutes  on  his 
wife  without  knowing  her,  but  tears  glistened,  for  the  first  time,  in  his 
e>es,  and  at  last  two  large  drops,  and  with  those  his  delirium,  were 
shed  from  his  eyelids.  He  immediately  recognised  his  wife,  and  cast 
himself  into  her  arms. 

The  joyful  lady,  in  her  turn,  found  it  hard  to  retain  her  senses.  After 
returning  his  caresses  in  the  tenderest  manner,  she  hastened  immedi- 
ately to  Don  Rodrigo,  who,  though  severely  hurt,  had  got  better  of  his 
wound,  and  watched  the  more  dreadful  maLidy  of  his  friend,  some* 


yao  THE  OWL. 

times  indeed,  in  hope,  but  more  commonly  in  despair  of  his  recoverji 

At  the  first  news,  therefore,  he  ran  hastily  to  the  room,  and  soon  cast 
himself  into  the  arms  of  his  friend  :  but  the  latter  received  him  coldly ; 
and  before  Rodrigo  could  finish  even  a  brief  salutation,  he  felt  the  other's 
arms  loosening  from  around  his  neck,  and  beheld  his  head  suddenly 
drop,  as  if  it  had  been  displeasing  that  their  eyes  should  meet  again. 
It  seemed,  indeed,  that  his  malady  had  already  returned  upon  him  ; 
but  in  another  moment  the  body  fell  forwards  on  the  floor,  and  in- 
stantly the  blood  gushed  from  a  hidden  wound  in  the  side,  which  had 
hitherto  been  concealed  by  the  mantle.  A  pair  of  scissors,  covered 
with  blood  and  broken,  for  the  wound  had  been  desperately  bestowed, 
dropped  from  him  as  he  fell :  for,  to  show  more  sadly  the  lady's  own 
joyful  forgetfulness,  she  had  supplied  the  weapon  for  this  dreadful 
catastrophe. 

As  for  the  miserable  lady,  it  was  feared,  from  the  violence  of  her 
prief,  that  the  same  dismal  blow  would  have  been  her  death  ;  but  her 
heart  had  been  too  long  inured  to  such  sufferings  to  be  so  speedily 
broken;  and  at  last,  attaining  to  that  peace  which  belongs  only  to  the 
comforts  of  our  holy  religion,  she  devoted  her  widowhood  to  God,  and 
cheerfully  ended  an  old  age  of  piety  in  the  Convent  of  St  Faith. 


THE  OWL. 

*'  A^  indiscreet  friend,"  says  the  proverb,  "  is  more  dangerous  than 
/\  the  naked  sword  of  an  enemy  ;  "  and  truly,  there  is  nothing 
more  fatal  than  the  act  of  a  misjudging  ally,  which,  like  a  mistake  in 
medicine,  is  apt  to  kill  the  unhappy  patient  whom  it  was  intended  to 
cure. 

This  lesson  was  taught  in  a  remarkable  manner  to  the  innocent  Zer- 
lina,  a  peasant  ;  to  conceive  which,  you  must  suppose  her  to  have  gone 
by  permission  into  the  garden  of  the  Countess  of  Marezzo,  near  the 
Arno,  one  beautiful  morning  of  June.  It  was  a  spicious  pleasure- 
ground,  excellently  disposed  and  adorned  with  the  choicest  specimens 
of  shrubs  and  trees,  being  bounded  on  all  sides  by  hedgerows  of  laurels 
and  myrtles,  and  such  sombre  evergreens,  and  in  the  midst  was  a 
pretty  verdant  lawn  with  a  sundial. 

The  numberless  plants  that  belong  to  that  bountiful  season  were  then 
in  full  flower,  and  the  delicate  fragrance  of  the  orange  blossoms  per- 
fumed the  universal  air.  The  thrushes  were  singing  merrily  in  the 
copses,  and  the  bees,  that  cannot  stir  without  music,  made  a  joyous 
humming  with  their  wings.  All.  things  were  vigorous  and  cheerful  ex- 
cept one,  a  poor  owl,  that  had  been  hurt  by  a  bolt  from  a  crossbow, 
and  so  had  Ijeen  unable  by  daylight  to  regain  his  accustomed  hermit- 
age, but  sheltered  himself  under  a  row  of  laurel-trees  and  hollies,  that 
afforded  a  delicious  shadow  in  the  noontide  sun.  There,  shunning 
and  shunned  by  all,  as  is  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate,  he  languished  over 
his  wound  ;  till  a  flight  of  pert  sparrows  espying  him,  he  was  soon 
forced  to  endure  a  thousand  twittings  as  well  as  buffets  from  that  in- 
solent race. 


THE  OWL.  y*« 

The  noise  of  these  chatterers  uttractinpj  the  attention  of  Zerlina,  she 
crossed  over  to  the  spot  ;  and,  lo  !  there  crouched  the  poor  bewildered 
owl,  blinking  with  his'  large  bedazzled  eyes,  and  nodding  as  if  with 
giddiness  from  his  buffetings  and  the  blaze  of  unusual  light. 

The  tender  girl  being  vtry  gentle  and  compassionate  i)v  nature,  was 
no  wa\s  repelled  by  his  ugliness  ;  but  thinking  of  his  sufferings,  took 
up  the  feathered  wretch  in  lier  arms  and  ende.ivoured  to  revive  him  i)y 
placing  him  on  her  bosom.  There,  nursing  him  with  an  abundance  of 
pity  and  concern,  she  carried  hi  ^  to  the  grass-plat,  and  being  ignorant 
of  his  habits,  laid  out  the  poor  drooping  bird,  as  her  own  lively  spirits 
prompted  her,  in  the  glowing  sunshine  :  for  she  felt  in  her  own  heart, 
at  that  moment,  the  kind  and  cheerful  influence  of  the  genial  sun. 
Then,  withdrawing  a  little  way  and  leaning  a^^ainst  the  dial,  she  awaited 
the  grateful  change  which  she  hoped  to  behold  in  the  creature's  looks  ; 
vv-hereas,  the  tormented  owl  being  grievously  dazzled,  and  annoyed 
more  than  ever,  hopued  off  again,  with  many  piteous  efforts,  to  tlie 
shady  evergreens.  Notwithstanding,  believing  that  this  sh\  ness  was 
only  because  of  his  natural  wildness  or  fear,  she  brought  him  over  again 
to  the  lawn,  and  then  ran  into  the  house  for  some  crumbs  to  feed  him 
withal. 

The  poor  owl,  in  the  meantime,  crawled  partly  back,  as  before,  to  his 
friendly  shelter  of  holly.  The  simple  girl  found  him,  therefore,  with 
much  wonder,  again  retiring  towards  those  gloomy  buslies. 

"Why,  what  a  wilful  creature  is  this,"  she  thought,  "that  is  so  loth 
to  be  comforted  !  No  sooner  have  I  placed  it  in  the  warm  cheerful 
sunshine,  which  enlivens  all  its  fellow-birds  to  chirp  and  sing,  than  it 
goes  back  and  mopes  under  the  most  dismal  corners.  I  have  known 
many  human  persons  to  have  those  peevish  fits,  and  to  reject  kindness 
as  perversely,  but  who  would  look  for  such  unnatural  humours  in  a 
simple  bird  ! " 

Therewith,  taking  the  monkish  fowl  from  his  dull  leafy  cloisters,  she 
disposed  him  once  more  on  the  sunny  lawn,  where  he  made  still  fresh 
attempts  to  get  away  from  the  over-pamful  radiance,  but  was  now  be- 
come too  feeble  and  ill  to  remove.  Zerlina  therefore  began  to  believe 
that  he  was  reconciled  to  his  situation  ;  but  she  had  hardly  cherished 
this  fancy,  when  a  dismal  film  came  suddenly  over  his  large  round 
eyes  ;  and  then  falling  over  upon  his  back,  after  one  or  two  slow  gasps 
of  his  beak,  and  a  few  twitches  of  his  aged  claws,  the  poor  martyr  of 
kindness  expired  before  her  sight.  It  cost  her  a  few  tears  to  witness 
the  tragical  issue  of  her  endeavours  ;  but  she  was  still  more  grieved 
afterwards,  when  she  was  told  of  the  cruelty  of  her  unskilful  treatment  : 
' — and  the  poor  owl,  with  its  melancholy  death,  was  the  frequent  sub- 
ject of  her  meditations. 

In  the  year  after  this  occurrence,  it  happened  that  the  Countess  of 
Marezzo  was  in  want  of  a  young  female  attendant,  and  being  much 
struck  with  the  modesty  and  lively  temper  of  Zerlina,  she  requested  her 
parents  to  let  her  live  with  her.  The  poor  people  naving  a  numerous 
family  to  provide  for,  a;^reed  very  cheerfully  to  the  proposal  ;  and  Zer- 
lina was  c.uried  by  her  benefactress  to  Rome.  Her  good  conduct 
confirming  the  prepossessions  of  the  Countess,  the  latter  showed  her 
many  marks  of  her  favour  and  regard,  not  only  furnishing  her  handp 

2  Z 


fti  THE  GERMAN  KNIGHT. 

somely  with  apparel,  but  taking  her  as  a  companion  on  her  visits  to  the 
most  rich  and  noble  famihes,  so  that  Zerlina  was  thus  introduced  to 
much  g.iicty  ;ind  splendour.  Her  he.;rt,  notwithstanding,  ac'ned  of'tc-n- 
times  under  her  silken  dresses,  for  in  spite  of  the  favour  of  the  Countess, 
she  met  with  many  slights  from  the  proud  and  wealthy,  on  account  of  her 
humble  origin,  as  well  as  much  envy  and  malice  from  persons  of  her 
own  condition.  She  fell  therefore  into  a  deep  melancholy,  and  being 
interrojated  by  the  Countess,  she  declared  that  she  pined  for  her  for- 
mer humble  but  happy  estate,  and  begged  with  all  humility  that  she 
miglit  return  to  her  native  village. 

The  Countess  being  much  surprised  as  well  as  grieved  at  this  con- 
fession, inquired  if  she  had  ever  given  her  cause  to  repent  of  her  pro- 
tection, to  which  Zerlina  replied  with  many  grateful  tears,  but  still 
avovv  ing  the  ardour  of  her  wishes. 

''  Let  me  return,"  said  she,  "to  my  own  homely  life  ;  this  oppressive 
splendour  dazzles  and  bewilders  me.  I  feel  by  a  thousand  humiliating 
misgivings  and  disgraces,  that  it  is  foreign  to  my  nature  ;  my  defects 
of  birth  at  J  manners  making  me  shrink  continually  within  myself, 
whilst  thos.'  who  were  born  for  its  blaze  perceive  readily  that  I  belong 
to  an  obscurer  race,  and  taunt  me  with  jests  and  indignities  for  intrud- 
ing on  their  sphere.  Those,  also,  who  should  be  my  equals  are  quite 
as  bitter  against  me  for  overstepping  their  station,  so  that  my  life  is 
thus  a  round  of  perpetual  mortincations  and  uneasiness.  Pray,  there- 
fore, absolve  me  of  ingratitude,  if  I  long  to  return  to  my  native  and 
proper  shades,  with  their  appointed  habits.  I  am  dying,  like  the  poor 
owl,  for  lack  of  my  natural  obscurity." 

The  curiosity  of  the  Countess  being  awakened  by  her  last  expression, 
Zerlina  related  to  her  the  story  of  that  unfortunate  bird,  and  applied  it 
with  a  very  touching  commentary  to  her  own  condition  ;  so  that  the 
Countess  was  affected  even  to  the  shedding  of  tears  :  she  immediately 
comprehended  the  moral,  and  carrying  back  Zerlina  to  her  native  vil- 
lage, she  bestowed  her  future  favour  so  judiciously,  that  instead  of  being 
a  misfortune,  it  secured  the  complete  happiness  of  the  pretty  peasant 


THE  GERMAN  KNIGHT. 

THERE  is  an  old  proverb,  that  some  jokes  are  cut-thronts  ;  mean- 
ing that  certain  unlucky  jests  are  apt  to  bring  a  tragical  ending, 
— a  truth  which  has  being  contirmed  by  many  instances  besides  that 
one  which  I  am  about  to  relate. 

At  the  memorable  siege  of  Vienna  by  the  French,  in  the  year ., 

the  inhabitants  enrolled  themselves  in  great  numbers  for  the  defence 
of  the  city,  and  amon.;st  these  was  one  Lodowic,  a  man  of  dull  intel- 
lect and  a  hasty  temper,  but  withal  of  a  slow  courage.  He  was  no* 
one  of  the  last,  however,  to  volunteer  ;  for  there  was  a  lady  in  the 
background  who  excited  him,  with  an  extraordinary  eagerness,  to  take 
up  arms  igainst  the  common  enemy. 

It  is  nc'torious  that  the  Germans,  though  phlegmatic,  are  a  romantic 
(j.fcople  in  Iheir  notions  ;  the  tales  of  chivalry,  the  mysteries  of  Odin, 


THE  GERMAN  KNICHT,  y»$ 

lind  dinbolical  legends,  being  their  most  favourite  studies.  In  affairs 
of  business  they  are  plodding,  indefatigable,  and  of  an  extraordinary 
patience,  their  naturalists  having  counted  cod's  eggs,  by  millions, 
beyond  any  other  people  ;  and  in  their  extravagant  fli:^hts  they  equally 
surpass  the  rest  of  mankind,  even  as  it  has  been  observed  of  the  most 
sedate  drudge-horses,  that  they  kick  up  highest  of  any  when  turned  out 
free  into  the  meadow. 

Dorothe.i,  for  so  the  lady  was  called,  partook  largely  of  the  national 
bias  ;  and  in  truth,  for  her  own  peace  and  contentment,  should  have 
lived  some  centuries  sooner,  when  the  customs  recorded  by  the  min- 
nesingers and  troubadours  were  the  common  usages.  In  her  own 
times,  it  was  a  novelty  to  see  a  young  maiden  so  over-dclighted  as  she 
was  at  the  dedication  of  her  lover  to  deeds  of  arms  and  bloodshed  ;  as 
if,  forsooth,  he  had  been  going  only  to  tilt  with  a  blunted  lance  at  a 
holiday  tournament,  instead  of  the  deadly  broil  with  ihe  French  in 
which  he  was  engaged.  With  her  own  hand  she  embroidered  for  him 
a  silken  scarf,  in  the  manner  of  the  damsels  of  yore,  and  bereaved  her 
own  headgear  to  bedeck  his  helmet  with  a  knightly  plume.  For  it 
was  one  of  her  fancies  that  Lodowic  should  go  forth  to  the  war  m  th** 
costume  of  her  ancestors,  from  whose  armoury  she  seU^ctfd  a  suit  of 
complete  steel,  which  had  been  worn  aforetime  in  the  Holy  Land. 

The  tin'id  spirit  of  the  German  made  him  willingly  entrench  himself 
in  a  coat  of  mail,  and  its  security  helped  him  to  overlook  the  undue 
alacrity  with  which  the  lady  of  his  love  commended  him  to  the  bloody 
field.  Not  a  tear  did  she  spend  at  the  buckling  on  of  his  cuirass,  nor 
a  single  sigh  at  the  delivery  of  his  shield. 

"Return  with  this,"  said  the  hard-iiearted  one,  "or  upon  it," — a 
benediction  which  she  had  learned  of  the  Spartan  heroine. 

It  was  noon  when  the  redoubtable  Lodowic  rode  forth  thus  accoutred 
to  join  his  troop  on  the  parade.  His  horse,  scared  by  the  clattering 
of  the  armour,  made  many  despente  plunges  by  the  way,  to  the 
manifest  derangement  of  his  scarf,  and  still  more  of  his  plumes,  which 
began  to  droop  down  his  nape  in  a  very  unseemly  fashion.  The  joints 
of  his  armour  being  stiff  with  the  rust  of  age,  he  had  no  great  com- 
mand of  his  limbs,  nor  was  he  very  expert  or  graceful  in  the  manage- 
ment of  his  lance.  As  for  liis  shield,  he  had  found  convenient  to  cast 
it  amongst  certain  gossiping  housewives  in  the  street  ;  so  that,  in 
extremity,  he  could  fulfil  neither  of  the  Spartan  conditions. 

The  common  people,  who  have  hawks'  eyes  for  any  grotesque  figure^ 
shouted  lustily  alter  him  as  he  rode,  which  attractet  the  general  notice 
of  his  troop  to  that  quarter,  and  as  soon  as  they  perceived  his  uncoutli 
habiliments,  set  off  as  they  wee  by  his  imperturbable  German  gravity, 
there  was  a  tumult  of  laughte:  and  derision  along  the  whole  line. 

Now  it  happened  that  there  belonged  to  this  troop  an  adjutant,  a 
special  friend  of  Lodowic,  but,  on  this  occasion,  the  most  bitter  of  his 
mockers.  A  hundred  merry  jests  he  passed  upon  the  unlucky  man- 
at-arms,  till  at  last  the  incensed  paladin  beckoned  him  a  pace  or  twa 
apart,  and  after  a  short  but  angry  conference,  returned  with  his  fac* 
at  a  white  heat  to  his  mistress,  and  informed  her  of  the  event. 

"  Now  this  adventure,"  said  the  cruel  one,  "  falls  out  better  than  I 
hoped.     Thou  shult  cast  down  thy  gauntlet  in  defiance  of  this  uiv> 


ft4  THE  GERMAN  KNIGHT, 

courtpous  knight  ;  and  though  there  be  no  royal  h'sts  appointed  is 
these  days,  ye  may  have,  notwithstanding,  a  very  honourable  and 
chivalrous  encounter." 

"As  for  that,  madam,"  returned  Lodowic,  "the  matter  is  settled, 
and  without  throwing  about  any  gloves  at  all.  I  have  dared  him  to 
meet  me  to-morrow  at  sunrise,  by  the  Linden  Wood  ;  and  one  way  or 
another  I  daresay  something  desperate  will  be  done  between  us." 

The  hard-hearted  one,  liighly  in  love  with  this  news,  embraced 
Lodowic  very  tenderly,  and,  to  mark  her  grace  towards  him  still  far- 
ther, gave  him  her  glove  to  wear  as  a  favour  during  the  impending 
combat.  She  selected  for  him,  moreover,  a  new  suit  of  armour,  and 
gave  him  a  fresh  shield  against  any  disaster, — a  provision  which  the 
knight  acknowledged  with  equal  gratitude  and  gravity.  And  now  she 
had  nothing  left  but  to  dream,  waking  or  sleeping,  of  the  wager  of 
battle  of  the  morrow  ;  whereas,  Lodowic  closed  his  eyes  no  more 
through  the  night  than  if  he  had  been  watching  his  arms  in  a 
church. 

As  soon  as  the  cocks  began  to  crow,  which  he  heard  with  as  much 
pleasure  as  St  Peter,  he  put  on  his  arms,  and  set  forth  whilst  the  morn- 
ing was  yet  at  a  grey  light.  There  is  no  chill  so  deathlike  and  subtle 
as  that  which  springs  up  with  the  vapourish  damps  before  sunrise, 
and  Lodowic  soon  found  himself  all  over  in  a  cold  sweat,  answerable 
to  that  of  the  earth.  Thoughts  of  death,  besides,  began  now  to  be 
busy  within  him  ;  the  very  crimson  rents  and  fissures  of  the  eastern 
sky  suggesting  to  him  the  gaping  of  the  gory  wounds  which  might 
soon  be  inflicted  on  his  miserable  body,  for  he  knew  that  even  the 
iron  defences  of  the  olden  knights  had  not  exempted  them  from  such 
cruel  slashes.  In  the  meantime,  he  studied  a  pacific  discourse,  which 
he  trusted  would  heal  up  the  quarrel  better  than  either  sword  or  lance  ; 
jind  in  this  Christian  temper  he  arrived  at  the  appointed  place.  There 
was  no  one  yet  visible  within  the  narrow  obscure  horizon  ;  wherefore 
he  paced  his  horse  slowly  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  Linden  Wood, 
between  which  and  himself  there  flowed  a  small  murmuring  stream. 

After  about  twenty  turns  to  and  fro,  Lodowic  beheld  some  one 
emerging  from  the  trees,  whom  the  mist  of  the  morning  would  not 
let  him  perfectly  distinguish.  However,  the  pale  light  of  the  sun 
beean  presently  to  glance  upon  the  figure,  turning  it  from  a  dark 
object  to  a  bright  one,  so  that  it  gleamed  out  like  the  rivulet,  which 
stood  at  nearly  the  same  distance.  The  figure  leaped  his  horse  over 
the  brook  with  a  slight  noise  that  sounded  like  the  jingling  of  arms, 
and  coming  gently  into  the  foreground,  Lodowic  discerned  that  it  was 
the  adjutant,  in  a  suit  of  complete  armour.  At  this  sight,  he  was 
very  much  puzzled  whether  to  take  it  as  a  new  affront  or  as  an  apology, 
that  the  other  came  thus,  in  a  suit  of  the  kind  that  had  begotten  their 
difference  ;  but  how  monstrous  was  his  rage  to  discover  that  it  was 
only  a  burlesque  armour — the  helmet  being  merely  a  pewter  basoi) 
and  the  shield  the  cover  of  a  large  iron  pot.  The  mocker,  pursuing 
his  original  jest  in  this  indiscreet  way,  had  prepared  a  set  speech  tew 
the  encounter. 

"You  see,  cousin,"  said  he,  "that  I  meet  you  at  your  own  arms. 
Here  is  my  helmet  to  match  with  yours,  and  this  my  buckler  is  made 


THE  GERMAN  KNIGHT,  73J 

after  the  model  of  your  own  ;  here  is  my  corslet  too  " — but  before  h? 
could  achieve  thd  comparison,  his  horse  was  staggering  from  the  rush 
of  the  choleric  Lodowic,  whose  spear,  whether  by  accident  or  design, 
was  buried  deep  in  the  other's  bosom.  The  wounded  man  gave  but 
one  tjroan,  and  fell  backward,  and  the  horse  of  Lodowic  taking  fright 
at  the  clatter  of  the  armour,  started  off  at  full  gallop,  throwing  his 
rider  side  by  side  with  the  bleeding  wretch  upon  the  grass. 

As  soon  as  he  recovered  from  the  shock,  Lodowic  got  up  and 
gazed  with  fixed  eyes  on  the  wounded  man.  He  was  lying  on  his 
back,  staring  dreadfully  against  the  sky  ;  one  of  his  hands  was 
clenched  about  the  handle  of  the  cruel  spear — the  other  he  kept 
striking  with  mere  anguish  against  the  ground,  where  it  soon  became 
dabbled  in  a  pool  of  blood  that  had  flowed  from  his  wound.  Anon, 
drawing  it  in  a  fresh  agony  across  his  brow,  his  face  likewise  was 
smeared  over  with  the  gore,  making  altogether  so  shocking  a  picture, 
that  Lodowic  was  ready  to  swoon  away  upon  the  spot. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  he  cried,  "tell  me,  my  dearest  friend,  that 
you  are  not  mortally  hurt  ;"  but  the  wounded  man  made  answer  only 
by  a  horrible  roll  of  his  eyes,  and  so  expired. 

Imagine  what  a  dreadful  sharp  pang  of  remorse  went  through  the 
bosom  of  Lodowic  at  this  dreary  spectacle.  His  heart  felt  cold  within 
him,  like  a  ball  of  snow,  but  his  head  was  burning  with  a  tumult  of 
remorseful  and  miserable  thoughts,  tOL;ether  with  some  most  painful 
misgivings  as  to  the  disposition  of  his  mistress,  which  now  began  to 
show  at  variance  with  loveliness  and  womanhood.  But  it  was  time  to 
be  gone,  the  country-people  beginning  to  stir  about  the  fields  ;  so 
casting  off  the  accursed  armour,  which  now  pained  him  through  and 
through,  like  Nessus'  poisoned  shirt,  he  ran  off,  bewildered,  he  knew 
not  whither. 

Shortly  after  his  departure,  the  hard-hearted  Dorothea,  with  her 
woman,  arrived  at  the  spot — and  lo  !  there  lay  the  dead  body  of  the 
adjutant,  with  the  spear  still  sticking  upright  in  his  bosom.  I  know 
not  how  such  a  fortitude  consists  with  the  female  nature,  but  she 
looked  on  this  dreadful  object  with  all  the  serenity  of  a  lady  in  old 
romance.  Her  only  concern  was  to  behold  the  armour  of  Lodowic 
scattered  so  shamefully  about,  for  she  had  resolved  that  he  should 
repair  to  her  with  all  the  chivalrous  formality.  Returning  home, 
therefore,  with  great  scorn  and  anger  in  her  looks,  she  promised  to 
visit  the  unfortunate  knight  with  a  rigorous  penance  ;  but  she  saw 
no  more  of  Lodowic,  except  the  follow'  g  letter,  which  was  brought  to 
her  the  same  evening  by  a  peasant  :- 

"  Madam, — I  send  you  by  this  page  your  glove,  stained  with  the 
blood  of  the  tra»t.or,  formerly  my  friend.  It  grieves  me  that  I  cannot 
lay  it  with  my  owr  'bands  at  your  feet,  but  a  vow  binds  me  to  achieve 
deeds  more  worthy  of  your  beauty  and  my  devotion.  To-morrow  i 
set  forth  for  Cyy\is,  and  I  shall  not  think  myself  entitled  to  your 
presence  till  I  have  strung  the  heads  of  a  score  of  Turks  at  my  saddle- 
bow.    Till  then,  I  remain  in  all  loyalty,  your  true  knight, 

"  Lodowic." 

The  hard-hearted  one  perused  this  letter  with  an  equal  mixture  0/ 


ya6  THE  FLORENTINE  KINSMEN. 

deHc;ht  and  doubt,  for  the  style  of  the  German  hitherto  had  been 
neither  quaint  nor  hernical.  She  waited  many  long  years,  you  may 
believe,  for  the  heads  of  the  infidels.  In  the  meantime,  Lodowic  had 
passed  over  into  En^t;Iand,  where  he  married  the  widow  of  a  refiner, 
and  soon  became  an  opulent  sugar-baker  ;  for  though  he  still  liad 
some  German  romantic  flights  on  an  occasion,  he  was  as  steady  and 
plodding  as  a  blind  millhorse  in  his  business. 


THE  FLORENTINE  KINSMEN. 

IT  is  a  true  proverb,  that  we  are  hawks  in  discerning  the  faults  o| 
others,  but  buzzards  in  spying  out  our  own  :  and  so  is  the  other, 
that  no  man  will  act  wickedly  before  a  mirror  ;  both  of  which  sayings 
I  hope  to  illustrate  in  the  following  story. 

The  hereditary  domains  of  the  Malatesti,  formerly  a  very  ancient 
and  noble  family  of  Florence,  were  large  and  princely,  though  now 
they  are  alienated  and  parcelled  out  amongst  numerous  possessors, 
and  the  race  which  then  owned  them  is  extinct.  After  many  genera- 
tions, the  greater  portion  of  the  estates  descended  to  a  distant  relation 
of  the  house,  and  the  remainder  to  his  kinsman,  who  had  already  some 
very  large  possessions  of  his  own. 

This  man,  notwithstanding  he  was  so  rich,  and  able  to  live,  if  he 
chose,  in  the  greatest  luxury  and  profusion,  was  still  so  covetous  as  to 
cast  an  envious  and  grudging  eye  on  the  property  of  his  noble  kins- 
man, and  he  did  nothing  but  devise  secretly  how  he  should  get  th^ 
rest  of  the  estates  of  the  Malatesti  into  his  own  hands.  His  kins- 
man, however,  though  generous  and  hospitable,  was  no  prodigal  or 
gambler,  likely  to  stand  in  need  of  usurious  loans  ;  neither  a  dissolute 
liver,  that  might  die  prematurely,  nor  a  soldier ;  but  addicted  to 
peaceful  literary  studies,  and  very  temperate  in  his  habits. 

The  miserly  man,  therefore,  saw  no  hope  of  obtaining  his  wishes, 
except  at  the  price  of  blood,  and  he  did  not  scruple  at  last  to  admit 
this  horrible  alternative  into  his  nightly  meditations.  He  resolved, 
therefore,  to  bribe  the  notorious  Pazzo,  a  famous  robber  of  that  time, 
to  his  purpose  ;  but  ashamed,  perhaps,  to  avow  his  inordinate  longings, 
even  to  a  robber,  or  else  grudging  tht  high  wages  of  such  a  servant  of 
iniquity,  he  afterwards  revoked  this  design,  and  took  upon  his  own 
hands  the  office  of  an  assassin. 

Accordingly  he  invited  his  unsuspecting  kinsman,  with  much  specious 
kindness,  to  his  own  house,  under  a  pretence  ot  consulting  hiir.  on 
some  rare  old  manuscripts  which  he  had  lately  purchased,  a  tempta- 
tion which  the  other  was  not  likely  to  resist.  He  repaired,  therefore, 
very  readily  to  the  miser's  country-seat,  where  they  sp';nt  a  ftw  days 
together  very  amicably  though  not  sumpJ;uously  ;  ^  |t  the  learned 
gentleman  was  contented  with  the  entertainment  which  he  hoped  to 
meet  with  in  the  antique  papyri.  At  last,  growing  more  impatient 
than  was  strictly  polite  to  behold  the  manuscripts,  he  inquired  for 
them  so  continually,  that  his  crafty  host  thought  it  was  full  time  to 
show  him  an  imurovement  which  he  had  designed  upon  his  estate, 


THR  FLORENTINE  KINSMEN.  7«> 

and  which  intended,  as  may  be  guessed,  the  addition  of  another  terri- 
tory to  his  own. 

The  cjentleman,  who,  along  with  alchemy  and  the  other  sciences, 
hnd  studied  landscape  gardening,  made  no  difficulties  ;  so  mounting 
their  horses,  they  rode  towards  the  middle  of  the  estate  into  a  deep  forest, 
the  gentleman  discoursing  by  the  way — for  the  last  time  in  his  lite 
possibly — on  the  cultivation  of  the  cedar.  The  miser,  with  a  digger  in 
his  sleeve,  rode  closely  by  his  side,  commenting  from  time  to  time  on 
the  growth  of  his  trees,  and  at  length  bade  his  companion  look 
towards  the  right,  through  a  certain  little  vista  which  opened  towards 
the  setting  sun,  now  shining  very  gorgeously  in  the  west.  The 
unwary  gentleman,  accordin:4ly  turned  his  head  on  that  side,  but  he 
had  scarcely  glanced  on  that  golden  light  of  heaven,  when  the  miser 
suddenly  smote  him  a  savage  blow  on  the  left  breast,  which  tumbled 
him  off  his  horse. 

The  stroke,  however,  though  so  well  directed,  alighted  luckily  on  a 
small  volume  of  a  favourite  author  which  the  gentleman  wore  con- 
stantly in  his  bosom.  So  that  learning,  which  has  brought  so  many 
to  poverty  and  a  miserable  end,  was  for  this  once  the  salvation  of  a 
life. 

At  first  the  victim  was  stunned  awhile  by  the  fall,  and  especially  by 
the  shocking  treachery  of  his  relation,  who,  seeing  how  matters  went, 
leapt  quickly  down  to  despatch  him  ;  but  the  gentleman,  though  a 
scholar,  made  a  vigorous  defence,  and  catching  hold  of  the  miser's 
arm  with  the  dagger,  he  began  to  plead  in  very  natural  terms  (for  at 
other  times  he  was  a  little  pedantical)  for  his  life. 

"  Oh,  my  kinsman,"  said  he,  "why  will  you  kill  me,  who  have  never 
wished  you  any  harm  in  my  days,  but  on  the  contrary  have  always 
loved  you  faithfully,  and  concerned  myself  at  every  opportunity  abput 
your  health  and  welfare  ?  Consider,  besides,  I  beg  of  you,  how  nearly 
we  are  allied  in  blood  :  though  it  is  a  foul  crime  for  any  man  to  lift 
an  unbrotherly  hand  against  another,  yet  in  our  case  it  is  thrice 
unnatural.  Remember  the  awful  curse  of  Cain,  which  for  this  very 
act  will  pursue  you  ;  and  for  your  own  sake  as  well  as  mine,  do  not 
incur  so  terrible  a  penalty.  Think  how  presumptuous  it  is  to  take  a 
life  of  God's  own  gracious  creation,  and  to  quench  a  spark  which  in 
after  remorse  you  cannot  by  any  means  rekindle  ;  nay,  how  much 
more  horrible  it  must  be  still  to  slay  an  immortal  soul,  as  you  thus 
hazard,  by  sending  me  to  my  audit  with  all  my  crimes  still  unrepented 
upon  my  head.  Look  here  at  this  very  blood,  which  you  have  drawn 
from  my  hand  in  our  struggle,  how  naturally  it  reproaches  and  stains 
you  ;  for  which  reason,  God  doubtless  made  it  of  that  blushing  hue, 
that  it  might  not  be  shed  thus  wantonly.  This  little  wound  alone, 
wrings  me  with  more  pain  than  I  have  ever  caused  to  any  living 
creature,  but  you  cannot  destroy  me  without  still  keener  anguish  and 
the  utmost  agonies.  And  why  indeed  should  you  slay  me?  not  for 
my  riches,  of  which  we  have  both  of  us  more  than  enough,  or  if  you 
wanted,  Heaven  knows  how  freely  I  would  share  my  means  with  \ou. 
I  cannot  believe  you  so  base  as  to  murder  me  for  such  unprofitable 
lucre,  but  doubtless  I  have  offended  you  in  some  innocent  way  to 
provoke  this  malice.     If  I  have,  I  will  beseech  your  pardon  a  thousand 


faS  THE  FLORENTINE  KINSMEN. 

times  over  from  the  simple  love  that  I  bear  you  ;  but  do  not  requite 

me  for  an  imaginary  wrong  so  barbarously.  Pray,  my  dear  kinsman, 
spare  me  !  Do  not  cut  me  off  thus  untimely  in  the  happy  prime  of  my 
days, — from  the  pleasant  sunshine,  and  from  the  blessed  deli:-;hts'of 
nature,  and  from  my  harmless  books  (for  he  did  not  for.^'et  those)  and 
all  the  common  joys  of  existence.  It  is  true,  I  have  no  dear  wife  or 
children  to  weep  for  me,  but  I  have  many  kindly  friends  that  will 
grieve  for  my  de/.th,  besides  all  the  poor  peasants  on  my  estates,  who 
will  fall,  I  fear,  under  a  harder  lordship.  Pray,  my  kinsman,  spare 
me!" 

But  the  cruel  miser,  in  reply,  only  struggled  to  release  himself,  and 
at  last  prevailing,  he  smote  the  other  once  or  twice  again  with  his 
dagger,  but  not  dangerously. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  noted  robber  Pazzo,  whom  I  have  already 
mentioned,  was  making  a  round  in  the  forest  at  the  same  time  with 
the  two  kinsmen,  and  thanking  Providence  that  had  thrown  into  his 
path  so  rich  a  prize  (for  the  rogue  was  very  devout  in  his  own  way), 
he  watched  them  along  the  road,  for  a  favourable  opportunity  of 
assaulting  them,  and  so  became  a  witness  of  this  murderous  transac- 
tion. 

Pazzo  himself  was  a  brave  man,  and  not  especially  cruel  ;  thus  he 
was  not  sorry  to  see  that  a  part  of  his  office  was  about  to  be  performed 
by  another,  and  probably,  too,  he  was  secretly  gratified  to  observe 
that  a  rich  and  reputable  man  could  behave  himself  so  like  a  despised 
robber  :  howbeit,  he  no  ways  interfered,  but  warily  ambushed  himself 
behind  a  large  cork-tree  to  behold  the  sequel. 

He  was  near  enough  to  hear  all  the  speeches  that  passed  between 
them,  so  that  having  still  some  human  kindliness  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  it  was  soon  awakened  by  the  gentleman's  eloquent  pleadmgs 
for  his  life :  but  when  the  assassin  began  to  attack  him  afresh,  the 
cruelty  of  the  act  struck  on  him  so  forcibly,  that  he  instantly  leaped 
out  upon  the  bloodthirsty  miser,  and  tore  him  down  to  the  ground. 
He  was  then  going  to  dispatch  him  without  further  delay,  but  the 
generous  kinsman  entreating  most  earnestly  for  the  wretch's  life,  and 
promising  any  sum  for  his  ransom,  Pazzo,  with  great  reluctance, 
allowed  him  to  remain  unhurt.  He  bound  his  hands  together,  not- 
withstanding, and  detained  him  as  his  prisoner  ;  but  he  would  accept 
of  no  money  nor  of  any  favour  from  the  grateful  gentleman,  except  a 
promise  that  he  would  use  his  interest  with  Government  in  behalf  of 
any  of  the  banditti  who  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  police. 

They  then  parted  with  mutual  courtesy,  the  gentleman  returning 
home,  and  Pazzo  repairing  with  his  captive  to  the  mountains,  where 
he  bestowed  him  as  a  legacy  to  his  comrades,  desiring  them  to  liber- 
ate him  only  for  an  enormous  ransom.  The  sum  was  soon  sent  to 
their  rendezvous,  as  agreed  upon  by  his  kinsman  ;  whereupon  the 
miser  was  suffered  to  depart :  and  thenceforwards  he  cherished  a 
gentleness  of  heart  which  he  had  been  taught  to  value  by  some  suffer- 
ings amongst  the  mountains. 

As  for  the  gentleman,  he  resumed  his  harmless  and  beloved  studies, 
till  being  over-persuaded  to  publish  a  metaphysical  work,  on  which 
he  had  been  engaged  for  some  years,  the  critics  did  for  him  what  hia 


THE  CARRIER'S  WIFE.  729 

kinsmnn  had  been  unable  to  effect,  and  he  died  of  chagrin.  The 
miser  thus  attained  in  the  end  to  his  obj-^ct  of  inheriting  the  whole  of 
the  estates  ;  but  he  enjoyed  them  very  briefly,  and  on  his  death  the 
family  of  Malatesti  became  extinct. 

The  ransom-money  Pazzo  distributed  amongst  his  comrades,  and 
then  renounced  for  ever  his  former  course  of  life  ;  confessing  that  what 
had  passed  between  the  two  kinsmen  had  held  up  to  him  such  an 
odious  pattern  of  his  own  wicked  practices,  that  he  repented  bitterly 
of  the  acts  of  violence  and  injustice  he  had  committed  in  his  profes- 
sion. In  this  manner  he  justified  the  sayings  with  which  I  set  out  in 
my  story  ;  and  afterwards,  entering  into  the  Venetian  navy,  he  served 
with  great  credit  against  the  Turks  and  infidels,  and  died  at  last 
bravely  fighting  with  those  enemies  of  our  religion. 


THE  CARRIERS  WIFE, 

IN  the  suburbs  of  Strasburg  there  lived  a  certain  poor  woman,  by 
trade  a  sempstress,  who  was  called  Margaret.  She  was  of  the 
middle  age,  but  so  cheerful  and  sweet-tempered,  and  besides  so 
comely,  and  of  such  honest  repute,  that  many  tradesmen  of  respect- 
able condition  would  have  been  glad  to  marry  her.  She  had  con- 
tracted herself,  however,  to  one  Kolmarr,  a  plausible  fellow  and  a 
carrier,  but  in  reality  a  smuggler  and  a  very  ruffian.  Accordingly,  whilst 
their  honeymoon  was  yet  in  the  wane,  he  began  to  use  her  very  shame- 
fully, till  at  last  she  was  worse  treated  than  his  mules,  upon  which  he 
made  her  to  attend  whilst  he  was  smoking  and  drinking  with  his  dis- 
solute comrades. 

Margaret,  notwithstanding,  being  very  humble  and  industrious, 
would  never  have  repined  at  this  drudgery  ;  but  on  any  ill  luck  which 
happened  to  him,  his  contraband  wares  being  somiCtimes  seized  upon  by 
spies,  he  would  beat  her  in  a  cruel  manner.  She  concealed  this  treat- 
ment, however,  from  everybody,  hoping  some  day  to  reclaim  him  by 
kindness — never  reproaching  him,  indeed,  but  by  haggard  and  careful 
looks,  which  she  could  not  help,  for  she  shrank  as  often  under  the 
pinching  hand  of  want  as  from  that  of  her  brutal  husband.  Her 
beauty  and  strength  thus  decaying  together,  she  became  at  last  so  dis- 
gusting to  him,  that  if  he  had  not  been  as  cautious  and  crafty  as  he 
was  cruel,  he  would  have  killed  her  without  delay.  As  it  was,  he 
almost  starved  her,  professing  extreme  poverty  ;  at  which  Margaret 
never  murmured,  but  only  grieved  for  his  sake  over  his  pretended 
losses. 

One  day,  as  she  was  thus  sitting  disconsolate  at  her  needlework, 
and  thinking  over  her  hard  condition,  she  heard  a  gentle  knocking  at 
the  door,  and  going  to  see  who  it  was,  she  beheld  her  cousin, a  pedlar, 
\\ho  travelled  through  the  country  with  his  box  of  wares.  At  first 
slight  of  him  she  was  very  joyful,  not  having  seen  him  for  many  years, 
but  her  heart  soon  sank  again  into  despondence  when  she  remem- 
bered how  wretchedly  she  must  entertain  him,  if  at  "11    for  if  Kolmar/ 


fJO  THE  CARRIER'S  WIFE. 

knew  that  she  bestowed  even  a  crust  of  bread,  he  would  certainly  beal 
her.     She  bade  her  relation,  however,  to  come  in  and  rest  himself. 

"  ALis  !  "  she  said,  "  I  have  nothing  to  give  thee  for  thy  supper,  the 
house  is  so  bare  ;  and  what  is  worse,  I  dare  not  m.ike  amends  to  thee 
with  a  night's  lodging,  for  my  husband  is  a  very  shy,  reserved  man, 
who  cannot  endure  the  presence  of  a  stranger  :  if  he  found  any  one 
here,  therefore,  at  his  return,  although  he  is  kind  enough  upon  othei 
occasions,  he  would  certainly  chide  me." 

Her  kinsman,  after  musing  a  little  while  over  these  words,  answered 
her  thus : 

''  Margaret,  I  perceive  how  it  is.  But  do  not  be  uneasy  :  the  best 
houses  may  be  found  unprovided  by  a  random  comer.  I  am  pre- 
pared, you  see,  against  such  emergencies  :  here  is  a  flask  of  good  wine, 
with  a  dried  fish  or  two,  and  a  handful  of  raisins, — of  which  I  shall 
be  glad  to  see  you  partake.  Come,  fall  to  ; "  and  laying  out  his  stores 
upon  the  table,  he  began  to  sup  merrily, 

Margaret,  :•"•  this  sight,  was  more  alarmed  than  ever  ;  nevertheless, 
after  many  persuasions  she  began  to  eat  also,  but  casting  her  eyes 
continually  towards  the  door,  as  if  she  feared  a  visit  from  an  Apennine 
wolf.  The  time  still  drawing  nearer  for  Kolmarr  to  return,  she 
begged  her  kinsman  to  dispatch  his  meal,  as  he  loved  her,  and  then 
depart.  "  I  will  even  do  as  you  say,"  said  he,  still  misunderstanding 
her  ;  "  so  now  show  me  to  my  chamber." 

To  this  Margaret  in  great  alarm  replied  with  what  she  had  told 
him  before,  beseeching  him  not  to  take  it  ill  of  her  that  he  could 
not  sleep  in  her  house  ;  but  to  believe  that  she  regarded  it  as  one  of 
her  many  misfortunes. 

"I  understand  you,"  said  he,  "very  well;  but  pray  make  me  no 
more  such  excuses.  I  have  told  you  I  am  not  a  man  to  quarrel  with 
my  accommodation.  Though  the  bed  be  harder,  and  the  sheets  more 
coarse  and  ragged  than  you  care  to  treat  me  with,  I  should  lie  very 
thankfully  on  the  floor.  So  no  words,  woman,  for  hence  I  will  not  to- 
night for  a  king's  bed  of  down  " 

Margaret,  finding  him  so  positive,  and  observing,  besides,  that  he 
was  flushed  with  wine,  was  fain  to  humour  him  ;  however,  as  she 
knew  he  was  a  discreet  man,  and  that  he  would  depart  before  sunrise, 
she  hoped  he  might  be  lodged  there  that  one  night  without  the  know- 
ledge of  Kolmarr.  She  took  him  up,  therefore,  into  the  garret,  which 
contained  nothing  but  a  low  sorry  bed  and  a  long  stout  rope,  which 
Kolmarr  had  left  there,  j5robably,  to  tempt  her  to  hang  herself ;  for 
she  had  sometimes  slept  there  alone  when  he  ill-treated  her.  Her 
cousin,  nevertheless,  swore  that  it  was  a  lodging  for  a  prince. 

"  Nay,"  quoth  she,  "you  are  kind  enough  to  view  it  so  ;  but  it  is 
grievously  troubled  with  the  rats,  as  I  have  had  cause  to  know  ;*  and 
then  hastily  bidding  him  good-night,  she  went  down  the  stairs  again, 
with  her  eyes  brimful  of  tears. 

After  she  had  been  down  a  little  while,  Kolmarr  knocked  at  the 
door,  which  made  Margaret  almost  fall  from  her  chair.  He  came  in 
soberly,  but  in  a  grave  humour,  and  observing  how  red  her  eyes  vere, 
ne  pulled  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  with  much  apparent  affection. 
The  poor  woman  was  too  full  at  heart  to  speak ;  but  throwing  her 


THE  CARRIER'S  WIFE.  73I 

lean  arms  round  his  neck,  she  seemed  to  forget  in  that  moment  all 
her  troubles  ;  and  still  more  when  Kolmarr,  with  a  terrible  oath, 
swore  that  after  that  night  he  would  never  fret  her  again. 

The  grateful  Margaret,  being  very  humble  and  we  ik-spirited,  was 
ready  to  fall  down  on  her  knees  to  him  for  this  unusual  kindness,  and 
her  conscience  smiting  her,  she  was  just  going  to  confess  to  him  the 
concealment  of  her  cousin,  and  to  beseech  his  forgiveness  for  that  dis- 
obedience, as  the  first  she  had  ever  committed  as  his  wife.  But 
luckily  she  held  her  peace,  for  her  fears  still  prevailed  over  her  ;  and 
^n  these  terms  they  bestowed  themselves  together  for  the  night. 

Now  it  was  Kolmarr's  custom  of  a  night  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  stable, 
ht.  as  a  rogue  himself,  being  very  fearful  of  the  dishonesty  of  others  ; 
for  which  reason  he  likewise  locked  behind  him  the  door  of  his  bed- 
chamber, in  which  he  deposited  his  commodities.  About  midnight, 
therefore,  Margaret  heard  him  go  down  as  usual,  but  his  siay  was 
three  times  as  long  as  ever  it  had  been  before.  She  became  very 
uneasy  at  this  circumstance,  and,  moreover,  at  a  strong  smoke  which 
began  to  creep  into  the  chamber  ;  whereupon,  going  to  the  window, 
she  heard  Kolmarr  beneath,  moaning  like  a  person  in  great  pain.  In 
answer  to  her  questions,  he  told  her  he  had  been  beaten  by  some 
robbers,  who  had  taken  away  his  mules,  and  then  set  fire  to  the 
house. 

"  The  back  of  it,"  said  he,  "  is  all  wrapt  in  a  flame  ;  but  what  most 
grieves  me  of  all,  my  dear  Margaret,  is  that  I  cannot  rescue  thee, 
seeing  that  in  my  strife  with  the  villains  I  have  lost  the  key  of  the 
outer  door.  Nevertheless,  if  thou  wilt  take  courage  and  cast  thyself 
down,  I  will  catch  thee  in  irly  arms  ;  or  at  worst,  I  have  dragged 
hither  a  great  heap  of  straw,  so  that  no  harm  may  befall  thy  precious 
hmbs." 

The  crafty  ruffian,  however,  intended  her  no  kinder  reception  than 
the  hard  bare  earth  would  afford  to  her  miserable  bones.  His 
brutality  being  well  known  in  the  country,  he  did  not  care  to  kill  her 
openly,  whereas  in  this  way  he  hoped  to  make  it  apparent  that  her 
death  was  caused  by  accident  ;  and  besides,  as  it  would  be  in  a 
manner  by  her  own  act,  he  flattered  himself  there  would  be  the  less 
guilt  upon  his  head. 

The  window  being  very  far  from  the  ground,  Margaret,  however, 
hesitated  at  the  fall  ;  and  in  the  meantime  the  pedlar  awaked,  and 
smelling  the  smoke,  and  going  forth  to  the  window  above,  he  over- 
heard the  entreaties  of  Kolmarr.  The  danger,  by  his  account,  was 
very  imminent  ;  so  stepping  in  again  for  his  pack,  which  was  very 
heavy,  the  ptdlar  pitched  it  out  in  the  dark  upon  Kolm  irr,  who 
immediately  began  to  groan  in  the  most  dismal  earnest.  The  p  -dlar, 
knowing  how  lieavy  the  box  was,  and  hearing  the  crash,  with  tlie 
lamentations  that  followed,  made  no  doubt  that  he  had  done  for  the 
man  beneath  ;  so,  without  staying  to  make  «jiy  fruitless  inquiries,  he 
groped  about  for  the  rope  which  he  had  noticed  in  the  chamber,  and 
knotting  it  here  and  there,  and  tying  one  end  of  it  to  the  bed,  he  let 
himself  down,  as  nimbly  as  a  cat,  to  his  kinswoman's  window.  Mar- 
garet, touched  by  the  moans  of  her  husband,  h;id  just  made  up  hef 
mind  to  leap  down  at  a  venture,  when  the  pedlar  withheld  her,  and 


f3a  THE  TWO  LOVERS  OF  SICILY. 

being  very  stout  and  active,  he  soon  made  shift  to  lower  her  down 
safely  to  the  ground,  and  then  followed  himself,  like  a  sailor,  by 
means  of  the  rope. 

As  soon  as  Margaret  was  on  her  feet,  she  sought  for  Kolrxarr,  who 
by  this  time  was  as  quiet  as  a  stone,  and  made  no  answez'  to  her 
inquiries  ;  the  pedlar  therefore  concluded  justly  that  he  was  dead, 
and  speedily  found  out  with  his  fingers  that  there  was  a  great  hole  in 
the  wretch's  skull.  At  first  he  was  very  much  shocked  and  troubled 
by  this  discovery  ;  but  afterwards,  going  behind  the  house,  and  see- 
iui;  the  smouldering  remains  of  a  heap  of  straw  which  Kolmar  had 
lighted,  he  comprehended  the  whole  matter  and  was  comforted. 
Then  bringing  Margaret,  who  was  lamenting  very  loudly,  to  the  same 
spot,  he  showed  her  the  ashes,  and  told  her  how  foolish  it  was  to 
mourn  so  for  a  wicked  man,  who  had  died  horribly  through  his  own 
plotting  against  her  life. 

"The  devices  of  the  bloody  man,"  said  he,  "have  fallen  upon  his 
own  head.  Consider  this,  therefore,  as  the  good  deed  of  Providence, 
which,  pitying  your  distresses,  has  ordained  you  a  happier  life  here- 
after ;  and  for  your  maintenance,  if  God  should  fail  to  provide  you,  I 
will  see  to  it  myself." 

In  this  manner,  comforting  her  judiciously,  Margaret  dried  her 
tears,  reflecting,  as  many  women  do,  but  with  less  reason,  that  she 
must  needs  be  happier  as  a  widow  than  she  had  ever  been  as  a  wife. 
As  for  what  he  had  promised,  her  kinsman  faithfully  kept  his  word, 
sending  her  from  time  to  time  a  portion  of  his  gains  ;  so  that,  with  her 
old  trade  of  sempstress,  and  the  property  of  Kolmarr,  she  was  main- 
tained in  comfort,  and  never  knew  want  all  the  rest  of  her  days. 


THE  TWO  FAITHFUL  LOVERS  OF  SICILY. 

IN  the  island  of  Sicily  there  lived  a  beautiful  girl  called  Biancafiore, 
whose  father  was  a  farmer  of  the  imposts  in  that  kingdom  ;  she 
had  several  lovers,  but  the  happiest  one  was  Tebaldo  Zanche,  a  young 
person  of  gentle  birth  but  of  indifferent  estate,  which  caused  him  to 
lae  more  favourably  regarded  by  Bianca  than  her  father  desired,  who 
had  set  his  heart  upon  matching  her  with  a  certain  wealthy  merchant 
of  Palermo.  The  power  of  a  parent  in  those  days  being  much  more 
despotic  than  in  our  temperate  times,  the  poor  wretched  girl  was 
finally  compelled  to  bestow  her  hand  on  the  merchant,  whereupon 
Tebaldo  instantly  took  leave  of  his  country,  and  with  a  hopeless 
passion  at  heart  wandered  over  Europe. 

As  soon  as  she  was  married,  Bianca  was  taken  by  her  husband  to 
his  country-house,  which  was  situated  on  the  sea-coast,  towards 
Girgenti,  his  chief  delight  being  to  watch  the  ships,  as  they  fared 
to  and  fro  on  their  mercantile  embassies,  whereas  they  only  recalled 
to  Bianca  the  small  white  sail  which  had  disappeared  with  the  un- 
fortunate Tebaldo.  This  prospect  of  itself  was  sufficient  to  aggravate 
her  melancholy,  but  her  residence  on  the  sea-shore  was  yet  to  expose 
Vker  to  still  greater  miseries. 


THE  TWO  LOVERS  OF  SICILY.  733 

It  was  not  uncommon  in  those  days  for  the  Barbary  cruisers,  those 
Aawks  of  the  MediLtrranean,  to  make  a  sudden  swoop  upon  our  coasts, 
and  carry  off  with  them,  besides  other  plunder,  both  men  and  women, 
whom  they  sold  into  slavery  amongst  the  Moors  in  default  of  ransom. 
In  this  manner,  making  a  descent  by  night  when  Mercanti  was  absent 
at  Palermo,  they  burnt  and  plundered  his  house,  and  took  away 
Bianca,  whose  horror  you  may  well  conceive,  when,  by  the  blazing 
light  of  her  own  dwelling,  she  was  carried  off  by  such  swarthy  bar- 
barians, whose  very  language  was  a  sphynx's  riddle  to  her,  and  might 
concern  her  life  or  death,  and  then  embarked  upon  a  sea  of  fire  ;  for 
there  happened  that  night  a  phenomenon  not  unusual  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean, namely,  the  phosphorescence  of  the  waters,  which,  whether 
caused  by  glowing  marine  insects  or  otherwise,  makes  the  waves  roll 
like  so  many  blue  burning  flames.  Those  who  have  witnessed  it 
know  well  its  dismal  appearance  on  a  gloomy  night,  when  the  billows 
come  and  vanish  away  like  fluxes  of  pallid  fire,  and  withal  so  vanour- 
like  and  unsubstantial,  that  apparently  the  vessel,  or  any  gross  corporal 
substance,  must  needs  sink  into  its  ghastly  abyss.  With  such  a  dreiry 
scene,  therefore,  and  in  the  midst  of  those  tawny-coloured  infidel 
Moors,  with  their  savage  visages  and  uncouth  garments  and  glittering 
arms,  'tis  no  marvel  if  Bianca  thought  herself  amongst  infernals  and 
the  demons  of  torture  on  the  sulphurous  lake. 

On  the  morrow,  which  scarcely  brought  any  assuagement  of  her 
fears,  they  had  lost  sight  of  Sicily,  and  a^  last  she  was  disembarked 
at  Oran,  which  is  an  African  port,  over  against  Spain.  Meanwhile 
Tebaldo  was  landing  at  Palermo,  where  he  learnt,  with  a  renewal  of 
all  his  pangs,  the  fate  of  his  beloved  mistress.  Forgetting  all  his 
enmity,  therefore,  he  repaired  presently  to  Mercanti,  to  concert  with 
him  how  to  redeem  her  out  of  the  hands  of  the  accursed  Moors,  a 
Droceeding  which  he  would  not  have  paused  for,  had  fortune  put  it  in 
his  power  to  proceed  instantly  to  her  ransom. 

The  merchant  lamenting  his  years  and  infirmities,  which  forbade 
him  to  go  in  search  of  his  wife,  Tebaldo  readily  offered  himself  to 
proceed  in  his  behalf ;  adding,  "  that  it  was  only  through  the  poverty 
of  his  means  that  he  had  not  sailed  already  at  his  own  suggestion,  but 
that  if  Mercanti  would  furnish  him  with  the  requisite  sums,  he  should 
hope  to  restore  the  unfortunate  Bianca  to  his  arms."  The  merchant 
wondering  very  much  at  this  proposal,  and  asking  what  securities  he 
could  offer  for  such  a  trust, — 

"  Alas  !  "  quoth  Tebaldo,  "  I  have  nothing  to  pledge  for  my  perfor- 
mance, except  an  unhappy  love  for  her,  that  would  undergo  thrice-told 
perils  for  her  sake.  I  am  that  hopeless  Tebaldo  Zanche  who  was 
made  so  eminently  miserable  by  her  marriage  :  nevertheless,  I  will 
forgive  that,  as  well  as  all  other  mischances,  if  I  may  but  approve  my 
honourable  regard  for  her  by  this  self-devoted  service.  There  are 
yet  some  reasonable  doubts  you  may  well  entertain  of  my  disinter- 
estedness and  fidelity  on  such  a  mission,  and  I  know  not  how  to 
remove  them  ;  but  when  you  think  of  the  dangerous  infidels  in  whose 
hands  she  now  is,  I  have  a  hope  that  you  may  bring  yourself  to  think 
her  as  safe  at  least  in  mine." 

The  passionate  Tebaldo  enforced  these  arguments  with  so  many 


t34  THE  TWO  LOVERS  OF  SICILY. 

sincere  tenrs  und  solemn  oaths,  and,  besides,  depicted  so  naturally 
the  horrible  condition  of  the  lady  amongst  the  Moors,  that  at  last  the 
merchant  consented  to  his  request,  and  furnishing  iiim  with  the  proper 
authorities,  the  generous  lover,  with  a  loyal  heart  which  desii^ned 
nothing  loss  than  he  had  professed,  set  sail  on  his  arduous  adventure. 

Let  us  pass  over  the  hardships  and  dangers  of  such  an  enterprise, 
and  above  all,  its  cruel  anxieties,  the  hopes  which  were  niised  at 
Tunis  being  wrecked  again  at  Algiers,  till  at  last  he  discovered 
Bianca  amongst  the  slaves  of  the  chief  pirate  at  Oran,  who,  despairing 
of  a  ransom,  began  to  contemplate  her  as  his  own  mistress.  Tebaldo's 
bargain  was  soon  made  ;  wliereupon  the  lady  was  set  at  liberty,  and 
to  her  unspeakable  joy,  by  the  hands  of  her  own  beloved  Zanche  ;  yet 
when  they  remembered  the  final  consequence  of  her  freedom,  the 
brightness  of  their  delight  was  quenched  with  some  very  bitter  tears. 
The  generosity  ol  their  natures,  however,  triumphed  over  these  regrets, 
and  with  s.id  hearts,  but  full  of  virtuous  resolution,  they  re-embarked 
together  in  a  Genoese  carrack  for  Palermo. 

And  now  their  evil  fortune  still  pursued  them,  for  falling  in  with  a 
Sallee  rover,  although  they  escaped  a  second  capture  by  the  fast- 
sailing  of  their  ship,  they  \\  ere  chased  a  long  way  out  of  their  course, 
into  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  and  the  wind  turning  contrary,  increased 
towards  night  to  a  violent  tempest.  In  this  extremity  it  required  all 
the  tenderness  of  Te'oaldo  to  encourage  Bianca,  whose  low-spirited 
condition  made  her  more  fearfully  alive  to  the  horrors  of  the  raging 
sea,  which  indeed  roared  around  them  as  if  the  watery  desert  had 
hungry  lions  of  its  own,  as  well  as  the  sandy  wastes  of  Africa,  but  ten 
times  more  terrible  ;  the  ship's  timbers,  besides,  straining  as  i(  tliey 
would  part  asunder,  and  the  storm  howling  through  the  cordaj^e  like 
the  voices  of  those  evil  angels  who,  it  is  believed,  were  cast  into  the 
dreadful  deep. 

When  the  daylight  appeared  there  was  no  glimpse  of  any  land,  but 
the  ship  was  tossing  in  the  centre  of  a  mere  wilderness  of  sea,  and 
under  the  pitch-black  and  troubled  clouds,  which  were  still  driving  by 
a  fierce  wind  towards  the  south.  The  sails  were  torn  into  shreds,  and 
the  mariners,  ignorant  of  where  they  were,  let  the  ship  drift  at  the 
mercy  of  the  unmerciful  elements,  which  slacked  not  their  fury  be- 
cause the  prey  no  longer  resisted,  but  assaulted  the  helpless  bark  with 
unmitigated  rage. 

It  could  be  no  great  wrong  of  Tebaldo  and  Bianca  if,  at  such  a 
time,  they  exchanged  one  embrace  together  in  everlasting  farewell. 
They  then  composed  themselves  to  die  calmly  as  became  them,  in 
each  other's  company,  not  with  any  vain  shrieks  or  struggles,  but 
heroically,  as  they  had  lived  and  loved.  Thus  sitting  together  in  a 
martyr-hke  mood,  and  listening  to  the  awful  rushes  ot  the  waters 
across  the  deck,  they  heard  a  sudden  noise  overhead,  which  caused 
Tebaldo  to  look  forth,  and,  lo  !  there  were  the  drunken  mariner* 
putting  off  from  the  ship's  side  in  the  long-boat,  being  beguiled  to 
their  fatt  by  a  glimpse  of  land,  which  none  but  their  experitiiced 
eyes  could  yet  discover.  However,  they  had  not  struggled  far  with 
their  oars,  when  three  monstrous  curling  billows,  a  great  deal  loftier 
than  any  of  the  rest,  turned  the  boat  over  and  over,  washing  out  all  the 


THE  TWO  LOVERS  OF  SICILY,  r^ 

poor  gnsping  souls  that  were  therein,  whom  the  ensuing  waves 
SwaKowed  up  one  by  one,  without  even  letting  their  dying  cries  be 
henrd  through  the  bewildering  foam. 

After  this  sacrifice,  as  though  it  hnd  appeased  the  angry  deity  of 
the  ocean,  the  storm  sensibly  subsided  ;  and  in  an  hour  or  two,  the 
skies  clearing  up,  Tebaldo  perceived  that  they  were  off  a  small  solitary 
island — the  ship  soon  after  striking  upon  a  coral  reef,  about  two  hun- 
dred fathoms  from  the  shore.  The  skies  still  frowning  with  a  re;ir- 
Ward  storm,  Tebaldo  lost  no  time  in  framing  a  rude  raft,  with  spars 
and  empty  barrels  ;  upon  which  placing  Bianca,  with  such  stores  and 
%nplements  as  he  could  collect,  he  paddled  towards  the  land,  where 
•^ney  landed  safely  upon  a  little  sandy  beach. 

Their  first  act  was  to  return  thanks  to  God  for  their  miraculous 
preservation,  after  which  they  partook  of  a  repast  that,  after  their 
latigues,  was  very  needful,  and  then  ascended  a  gentle  sloping  hilt 
which  gave  them  a  prospect  of  the  island.  It  was  a  small,  verdant 
place,  without  any  human  inhabitants, — but  there  were  millions  of 
marine  birds  upon  the  rocks,  as  tame  as  domestic  fowls,  and  a  pro- 
digious number  of  rabbits  ;  the  interior  country,  besides,  seemed  well 
wooded  with  various  trees,  and  the  ground  furnished  divers  kinds  of 
/lerbs,  and  some  very  gigantic  vegetables,  together  with  many  Euro- 
pean flowers,  the  transportation  of  which  to  such  desolate  and  insular 
places  is  a  mystery  to  this  day. 

The  weather  again  turning  boisterous,  they  took  shelter  in  a  rocky 
cavern,  which  the  kind  hand  of  Nature  had  scoped  out  so  commo- 
diously,  that  it  seemed  to  have  been  provided  with  a  foresight  of  their 
wants.  Thus,  with  their  stores  from  the  ship,  they  were  ensured  against 
any  great  present  hardships — but  one.  Many  unlucky  lovers,  I  wot, 
have  sighed  for  such  an  island,  to  take  refuge  in  from  the  stern-hearttd 
world  ;  yet  here  were  two  such  fond  persons  in  such  an  asylum, 
betwixt  whom  fate  had  set  up  an  eternal  bar  !  Such  thoughts  as  this 
could  not  but  present  themselves  very  sorrowfully  to  the  minds  of 
Tebaldo  and  Bianca  ;  nevertheless,  he  served  her  with  the  most  tender 
and  devoted  homage,  and  as  love  taughthim,  contributed, by  athousand 
apt  contrivances,  to  her  comfort  and  ease. 

In  this  manner  suppose  them  to  spend  five  or  six  days — the  cave 
being  their  shelter,  and  Tebaldo,  by  fishing,  or  fowling,  or  ensnaring 
the  conies,  providing  a  change  of  food  ;  so  that,  excepting  the  original 
hardship  of  their  fortune,  the  lovers  had  little  cause  to  complain. 
Their  solitary  condition,  however,  and  the  melancholy  of  Bianca,  led 
to  many  little  acts  of  fondness  from  Tebaldo,  which  were  almost  as 
painful  to  exchange  as  to  withhold.  It  was  no  wonder,  then,  if  some- 
times in  the  anguish  of  his  heart,  some  expressions  of  impatience  burst 
from  his  lips,  to  which  she  answered  with  her  tears. 

At  last,  die  day  when  they  were  sitting  on  a  gusty  rock,  which  over- 
looked the  sea,  they  both  turned  at  once  towards  each  other,  with 
adverse  faces  and  so  despairing  a  look,  that  they  cast  themselves  by 
common  consent  into  each  other's  arms.  In  the  next  moment,  how- 
ever, forcing  themselves  asunder,  Tebaldo  began  as  follows,  whilst 
Bianca  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  : — 

"  I  can  bear  this  cruel  life  no  longer  !  better  were  we  far  apart,  af 


f3<5  THE   TWO  LOVERS  OF  SICILY. 

when  you  were  living  in  Sicily,  and  I  roaming  for  unattainable  peace 
all  over  the  wond.  The  restraint  of  distance  was  dre.idful  but  involun* 
tary,  and  nothing  so  painful  as  this  !  Your  tears  flow  before  my  sij^ht, 
>  et  I  must  not  kiss  them  away  without  trembh'ng,  nor  soothe  your  audi- 
ble f^rief  upon  my  bosom,  nor  mingle  my  sighs  with  yours,  though  we 
breatlie  the  same  limited  air,  and  not  in  a  distant  clime.  We  were 
made  for  each  other,  as  our  mutual  love  acknowledges  ;  and  yet  here, 
where  there  be  none  besides  ourselves,  we  must  be  several  and 
estranged.  My  heart  is  torn  asunder  by  such  imperative  contradictions. 
Methinks  there  be  but  us  two  real  creatures  in  the  world,  and  yet  the 
horrible  phantom  of  a  third  steps  in  between  and  frowns  us  miserably 
apart  !  O  Bianca  !  I  am  crazed  with  doubts  I  dare  hardly  to  name  ; 
but  if  fate  did  not  mean  to  unite  us  in  revocation  of  its  former  cruelty, 
why  should  .we  be  thus  thrown  together,  where  there  are  none  besides? 
As  eternal  a  bar  as  was  set  up  between  us  is  now  fixed  between  you 
and  your  husband,  Nature  herself,  by  this  hopeless  separation,  divorc- 
ing you  from  all  other  ties.  God  knows  with  what  scrupulous  exactness 
I  have  aimed  at  the  fulfilment  of  my  promise  — but  it  were  hard  to  be 
bound  to  an  impracticable  solution.  It  was  true  we  might  not  thus 
think  of  each  other  in  Sicily,  but  we  meet  here  as  if  beyond  the  grave.  If 
we  are,  as  I  believe,  in  the  forlorn  centre  of  tTie  vast  ocean,  what 
reasonable  hope  is  there  of  our  redemption  ?  Since,  then,  we  are  to 
spend  the  rest  of  our  days  together  in  this  place,  we  can  wrong  no  one, 
but  redress  a  great  wrong  to  ourselves,  by  the  stricter  union  of  our 
fates,  which  are  thus  far  already  married  together,  until  the  tomb." 

Tiie  miserable  Bianca  Wept  abundantly  at  this  discourse;  however  she 
begged  that  Tebaldo  would  not  mention  the  subject  for  at  least  seven 
more  days,  in  which  time  she  hoped  God  might  save  them  from  such  a 
step  by  sending  some  ship  to  their  succour.  She  spent  almost  all  this 
interval  in  watching  from  the  coast,  but  still  there  came  no  vessel,  not 
so  much  even  as  a  speck  on  the  horizon,  to  give  her  any  hope  of  return. 
Tebaldo  then  resuming  his  arguments,  she  answered  him  thus  : — 

"  Oh,  my  dearest  Tebaldo  !  let  us  rather  die  as  we  have  lived, 
victims  of  miplacable  fate,  'Han  cast  any  reproach  upon  our  innocent 
loves.  As  it  is,  no  one  can  reprove  our  affection,  which,  thou:-;h 
violently  controlled,  we  have  never  disavowed  ;  but  it  would  kill  me 
to  have  to  blush  for  its  unworthy  close.  It  is  true  that  in  one  point 
we  are  disunited,  but  there  is  no  distance  between  our  souls.  We 
may  not  indeed  gratify  our  fondness  by  caresses,  but  it  is  still  some- 
thing to  bestow  our  kindest  language,  and  looks,  and  prayers,  and  all 
lawful  and  honest  attentions  upon  each  other  ;  nay,  do  not  you  furnish 
me  with  the  means  of  life  and  everything  that  1  enjoy  t  which  my 
heart  tells  me  must  be  a  very  grateful  office  to  your  love.  Be  content, 
then,  to  be  the  fireserver  and  protector  and  the  very  comforter  of  my 
liie,  which  it  is  happiness  enough  for  me  to  owe  to  your  loving  hands. 
It  is  true  that  another  man  is  my  husband,  but  you  are  my  guardian 
angel,  and  show  a  love  for  me  that  as  much  surpasses  his  love  as  the 
heavenly  nature  is  above  the  earthly.  I  would  not  have  you  stoop 
from  this  pitch,  as  you  needs  must,  by  a  defect  of  virtue  and  honour; 
mil,  if  you  insist,  I  will  become  what  you  wish,  but  I  beseech  you  con- 
sider, ere  that  decision,  the  debasement  which  I  must  suffer  ir  your 


THE  TWO  LOVERS  OF  SICILY.  737 

esteem.  Nevertheless,  before  such  an  evil  hour,  I  hop^^  God  will  sen<S 
6:<me  ship  to  remove  us,  though,  if  I  might  prefer  my  owi":  sinful  will 
before  His,  I  would  rather  of  all  be  dead." 

The  despairing  lovers  at  these  words  wished  mutually  in  their 
hearts  that  they  had  perished  together  in  the  waves  tliat  were  fretting 
before  them, — when  Bianca,  looking  up  towards  the  horizon,  perceived 
the  masts  and  topmast-sails  of  a  ship,  whose  hull  was  still  hidden  by 
the  convexity  of  the  waters.  At  this  sight,  tliough  it  had  come  seem- 
ingly at  her  own  invocation,  she  turned  as  pale  as  marble,  and  with  a 
faltering  voice  bade  Tebaldo  observe  the  vessel,  which  with  a  de.ith- 
lik;  gaie  he  had  already  fixed  in  the  distance  : — for  doubtless  they 
would  rather  have  remained  as  they  were  till  they  died,  than  return  to 
the  separation  which  awaited  them  in  Sicily.  However,  the  ship  still 
approached  with  a  fair  wind,  and  at  last  put  out  a  pinnace,  which 
made  directly  towards  the  island. 

And  now  Tebaldo  became  a  bitter  convert  from  his  own  arguments, 
confessing  that  it  was  better  to  breathe  only  the  same  air  constantly 
with  Bianca  than  to  resign  her  companionship  to  another  ;  neither 
did  she  refuse  to  partake  in  his  regrets  :  and  more  tears  were  never 
shed  by  any  exiles  on  the  point  of  returning  to  their  native  land. 
With  heavy  hearts,  therefore,  they  descended,  hand  in  hand,  like  the 
first  pair  of  lovers  when  thev  quitted  their  paradise,  to  whom,  no  doubt, 
these  sad  Sicilians  inwardly  compared  themselves,  as  they  walked 
lingeringly  to  meet  the  boat,  which  belonged  to  a  vessel  of  Genoa,  and 
had  been  sent  to  obtain  a  supply  of  wood  and  water.  The  mariners 
wondered  very  much  at  their  appearance,  and  especially  at  Bianca, 
who  wore  a  fantastical  cap,  made  of  rabbit-skins,  with  a  cloak  of  the 
same  motley  fur  to  defend  her  from  the  sharp  sea-air  ;  and  as  for 
Tebaldo,  his  garments  were  as  motley  as  hers,  being  partly  seaman's 
apparel  and  partly  his  own,  whilst  his  beard  and  mustaches  had  grown 
to  a  savage  length. 

The  sailors,  however,  took  them  very  willingly  on  board,  where  they 
inquired  eagerly  concerning  Mercanti  ;  but  although  the  captain  knew 
him  well,  having  often  carried  his  freightages,  he  could  give  no  tidings 
oi  his  estate.  He  promised,  notwithstanding,  to  touch  at  Palermo  ; 
y.hither  the  ship  made  a  very  brief  passage,  to  the  infinite  relief  of  tlie 
.-.oveis  ;  for  now,  after  all  their  misfortunes,  .hey  were  about  to  return 
to  the  same  miserable  point  where  they  began.  Bianca,  therefore, 
spent  the  whole  time  of  the  voyage  in  grieving  apart  in  her  own  cabin, 
not  daring  to  trust  herself  in  sight  of  Tebaldo  ;  who,  on  his  part,  at 
the  prospect  of  tiieir  separation  after  such  an  intimate  communion 
of  danger  and  distresses,  was  ready  to  cast  himself  into  the  sea. 

Suppose  them,  then,  arrived  at  Palermo,  where  Tebaldo,  with  a  sad- 
der heart  than  he  had  foreseen,  proceeded  to  complete  his  undertaking, 
by  rendering  up  Bianca  to  her  husband.  He  repaired,  therefore,  to 
the  house,  and  inquired  for  Mercanti  ;  whereupon,  being  shown  iato 
his  presence — 

"  I  am  come,"  said  he,  "to  render  up  my  trust,  and  would  to  God 
that  my  life  were  a  part  of  the  submission.  I  have  redeemed  your 
'vife,  at  the  cost  of  your  ten  thousand  flor  .is  and  some  perils  besides  ; 


738  THE  VENETIAS   COUNTESS. 

for  which,  if  you  owe  me  anytning,  I  leave  her  my  executor,  foi  I  havt 
nothing  left  me  now  but  to  die." 

The  merchant,  looking  somewhat  amazed  at  his  discourse,  then 
a.iswered  him  thus  : — 

"  If  the  lady  you  speak  of  is  the  wife  of  my  brother,  Gio.  Mercanti, 
be  has  been  dead  these  three  months  ;  but  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  her, 
and,  likewise,  to  make  over  the  properties  that  belong  to  her  by  his 
bequest.  And  for  the  eminent  service  \ou  have  rendered  to  her,  for  my 
late  brother's  sake,  I  will  gratefully  repay  you  ;  his  last  words  having 
been  full  of  concern  for  his  dear  lady,  and  of  confidence  in  the  in- 
tegrity of  the  Signer  Tebaldo  Zanche  ;  which  name,  1  doubt  not,  you 
h  ive  made  honourable  in  your  own  person.  I  beseech  of  you,  there- 
fore, to  lead  me  instantly  to  my  kinswoman,  that  I  may  entertain  her 
as  slie  deserves." 

The  overjoyed  Tebaldo,  without  waiting  to  make  any  answer  *o 
these  courtesies,  ran  instantly  on  board  ship  to  Bianca,  who  now, 
without  any  reserve,  cast  herself  into  his  loving  arms.  She  did  not 
forget,  however,  the  tears  that  were  due  to  the  generosity  of  her  dead 
husband,  but  mourned  for  him  a  decent  season  ;  after  which,  with  the 
very  good-will  of  her  parents  and  all  parties,  she  gave  her  hand  to  the 
faithful  Tebaldo.  Thus,  after  many  trials,  which  they  endured  nobly, 
they  were  finally  made  happy,  as  their  long  misfortunes  and  virtue 
well  deserved  ;  and  their  names  are  preserved  unto  thib  day,  as  the 
Two  Faithful  Lovers  of  Sicily. 


THE  VENETIAN  COUNTESS. 

THE  face  of  the  Countess  Rovinello,  in  the  portrait  which  is  still 
in  the  family  palace  at  Venice,  bears  many  signs  of  that  stern 
and  gloomy  disposition  which  produced  such  bitter  fruits  in  th«  end 
to  herself  and  to  others.  The  nose,  more  Roman  than  aquiline,  re- 
sembling the  features  of  the  Caesars,  denotes  forcibly  her  masculine 
fiimness  and  determination  of  purpose  ;  her  dark  eyes  and  lowering 
brow,  the  pride  of  her  heart,  scarcely  less  than  that  of  the  fallen 
Angel ;  and  her  puckered  curling  lip,  the  scorn  and  cruelty  of  her 
humour.  Ambitious,  inflexible,  and  haughty  by  nature,  she  was  by 
education  subtle,  unmerciful,  and  a  bigot  ;  the  confessor  Landino,  a 
Jesuit,  being  constantly  at  her  elbow,  and  holding  the  secret  direction 
of  all  her  affairs. 

This  man  coming  one  day  into  her  chamber,  discovered  the  Countess 
in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  rage,  a  thing  in  her  very  unusual  ;  for  she 
disdained,  generally,  to  show  any  outward  signs  of  her  emotions. 
Mistrustful,  therefore,  of  her  own  voice,  lest  it  should  falter,  she  held 
but  an  open  letter,  her  hand  quaking  all  the  time  like  an  aspen  leaf, 
and  made  a  motion  for  Landino  to  read  it ;  who,  as  soon  as  he  had 
glanced  at  the  writing,  gave  back  the  pai)er  with  these  words  : — 

"This  affair  is  old  news  with  me.  The  blind  passion  of  your  son 
for  the  young  English  heretic  was  well  known  to  me  months  ago,  and 
nothing  has  been  omitted  to  break  off  so  scandalous  a  match.     I  hav« 


THE  VENETIAN  COUNTESS.  735 

many  skilful  agents  in  England,  but  for  this  once  they  have  been  frus- 
trated in  their  endeavours." 

"  Father,"  returned  the  offended  Countess,  "  you  are  prudent  and 
wise  in  most  cases  ;  but  would  it  not  have  been  as  well  to  have  shared 
your  information  with  myself?  The  authority  of  a  mother,  in  such  a 
matter,  mi^^ht  have  had  some  weight  in  the  scale." 

"We  have  not  failed,"  said  Landino,  "to  menace  him  in  tne  name 
of  the  Holy  Church,  the  mother  of  his  soul,  whose  mandates  in  autlio- 
rity  exceed  those  of  the  mother  of  his  body.  As  for  your  ignorance, 
It  was  a  needful  precaution,  that  any  acts  of  severity  might  seem  the 
inflictions  of  the  spiritual  parent  rather  than  your  own." 

The  Countess  nodded  her  head  gravely  at  this  speech,  to  signify 
that  she  understood  the  hint  of  Landino,  notwithstanding  she  felt  an- 
ger enough  at  heart  to  have  made  her  agree  to  any  measures,  however 
cruel,  for  the  prevention  of  so  hateful  a  marriage.  Her  great  con- 
fidence, however,  in  the  skill  and  subtlety  of  the  confessor  assured  her 
that  no  means  h<id  been  omitted  for  that  design,  and  now  it  only 
remained  to  concert  together  by  what  means  they  could  separate  the 
young  people  from  each  other.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  artful  Landino 
had  craft  enough  to  discover  that  the  Countess  meditated  a  match  for 
her  son,  which  would  not  have  suited  certain  political  views  of  his 
own  ;  accordingly  he  changed  his  game,  resolving  that  the  marriage 
of  Rovinello  and  the  young  English  lady  should  stand  good,  trusting 
that  he  could  afterwards  mould  it  to  his  purpose. 

"  What  you  say  of  separating  them,"  he  said,  "  is  well  enough,  as  far 
as  the  mere  punishment  of  the  parties  is  concerned  :  but  we  must  look 
beyond  that  to  other  considerations.  Nothing  would  be  more  easy, 
as  you  know,  than  to  annul  the  marriage,  for  which  the  Holy  Church 
hath  ample  power  and  a  sufficient  good  will  ;  but  it  will  be  a  more 
difficult  thing  to  disentangle  their  affections  from  each  other.  Granted, 
then,  though  you  should  even  tear  away  your  son  by  force  from  tlvi 
arms  of  the  heretic,  it  will  be  impossible  to  drive  him  against  his  will 
into  any  other  alliance.  As  for  the  girl,  she  is  of  gentle  birth  and  a 
large  fortune,  and  for  loveliness  miijiit  be  one  of  the  angels,  seeing 
which,  it  is  a  pity  but  to  think  on  the  peril  of  her  immortal  soul. 
Such  a  woman,  as  the  wife  of  your  son,  brings  us  endless  sorrow  and 
shameful  annoy,  whereas  such  a  convert  would  tend  to  our  intinite 
honour,  and  at  the  same  time  prevent  the  misery  of  the  young  people 
here,  as  well  as  the  perdition  of  a  soul  hereafter." 

The  Countess  understood  clearly  the  drift  of  this  discourse  ;  and 
after  some  further  arguments  it  was  ai^reed  that  she  should  receive 
the  young  people  with  an  apparent  kindness,  and  induce  them  to 
reside  with  her  for  some  time  at  the  palace,  during  which  she  was  to 
exert  her  joint  influence  with  Landino  to  convert  the  young  lady  to  the 
Roman  Catholic  faith. 

It  was  with  many  justifiable  misgivings  that  Rovinello  contemplated 
the  introduction  of  his  beautiful  bride  to  his  mother,  for  he  knew  her 
implacable  nature.  Notwithstanding,  with  the  fond  imagination  of  a 
lover,  he  hoped  that  the  loveliness  and  gentle  manners  of  his  miistresi 
would  finally  overcome  even  the  most  stubborn  of  prejudices.  Trust- 
ing to  this  delusion,  he  look  his  wife  to  the  palace  of  the  Countess^ 


74^  THE  VENETIAA  eOUNT:iSS. 

who  was  sitting,  when  they  entered,  on  a  couch  at  the  further  end  ef 
the  apartment  ;  but  Rovinello  could  perceive  a  look  on  her  counten- 
ance that  filled  him  witli  despair  ;  for  her  dark  eyes  were  fixed  upon  hiro 
quite  motionless,  like  those  of  a  statue,  and  her  lips  were  utterly  white 
through  passionate  compression.  Notwithstanding  that  the  young  pair 
had  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  chamber,  she  never  rose  from  her 
seat,  till  Rovinello,  coming  up  to  her  very  feet,  with  a  faltering  voice 
presented  the  young  lady  to  her  notice. 

The  inflexible  Countess,  in  return,  merely  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
Englishwoman,  who  at  this  strange  reception  began  to  shake  all  over 
with  fear  ;  and  the  more,  because  she  felt  the  hand  of  Rovinello  trem- 
bling witiiin  her  own.  After  a  long  silence,  more  dreadful  than  any 
words,  the  timid  creature,  plucking  up  her  courage  a  little,  began  to 
speak  as  follows,  with  great  sweetness  of  tone  and  manner  : — 

"  Pray,  madam,  do  not  scorn  to  receive  me  as  your  child,  for  I  have 
no  parent  in  this  far-off  land,  unless  the  mother  of  my  dear  Rovinello. 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  I  am  hateful  to  any  one  that  regards  him 
with  affection:  pray,  therefore,  do  not  spurn  me  thus  from  your 
heart." 

At  the  last  of  these  words  the  Countess  rose  up,  and  with  a  tone  at 
once  calm  and  stern,  and  a  befitting  look,  desired  the  young  lady  to 
kneel  down  and  receive  her  blessing.  The  obedient  girl,  with  bended 
knees  and  clasped  hands,  stooped  down  as  she  was  commanded,  at 
the  feet  of  the  haughty  Countess  ;  and  in  this  position  heard,  but  only 
half  comprehended,  in  Latin,  the  following  sentences  : — 

"  From  my  mouth  and  from  my  heart,  I  curse  thee,  wicked  heretic.  I 
commend  thee  to  flames  here,  and  to  flames  hereafter.  Amen  !  Amen  !  * 

I  have  said  that  the  Englishwoman  did  not  quite  comprehend  these 
words,  but  she  saw  by  the  gh.istly  countenance  of  Rovinello  that  they 
were  very  horrible.  A3  for  that  unhappy  gentleman,  he  let  go  the 
hand  of  his  wife,  and  grasping  his  forehead  between  his  palms,  as 
though  it  were  about  to  burst  asunder,  he  staggered  a  step  or  two 
aiari,  and  leaned  quite  stunned  and  bewildered  against  the  wall  of 
the  chamber.  His  cruel  mother,  noticing  this  movement,  cast  a 
fiercer  look  than  ever  towards  the  speechless  lady,  and  then  turning 
towards  Rovinello,  addressed  him  thus  : — 

"  Son,  thou  hast  come  home  to  me  this  day  after  years  of  travel  ; 
but  in  such  a  manner,  that  I  would  rather  behold  thee  crucified  :"  and 
v\  ith  that  she  pointed  to  a  large  ebony  cross,  whereon  was  the  figure 
of  our  blessed  Saviour  curiously  carved  in  ivory,  the  holy  hlood-drofjs 
being  represented  by  rubies,  so  as  to  form  a  more  lively  effigy  of  the 
divine  sacrifice. 

It  was  made  evident  by  these  speeches  that  the  implacable  temper 
of  the  Countess  had  overcome  all  the  counsels  of  Landino,  who  en- 
tered just  at  this  moment,  to  perceive  that  his  arguments  hau  been 
in  vain.  He  reproved  her  with  some  asperity  for  her  unchristian 
spirit,  and  her  temper  being  by  this  time  cool  enough  to  be  restrained 
by  policy,  by  dint  of  much  dissembling  there  was  an  apparent  recon« 
ciiiation  between  all  the  parties.  Thus  it  was  arranged  as  had  been 
Concerted  beforehand,  Rovinello  consenting,  with  :.^reat  satisfaction,  t# 
p..ss  some  months  with  his  wife  in  the  palace  of  his  mothei; 


THE  VENETIAN  COUNTESS.  f4i 

The  unhappy  Englishwoman,  however,  though  now  living  under  the 

f^me  roof  with  the  Countess,  and  caressed  by  htr  e\ery  day.  began 
toon  to  find  this  reconcilement  more  intoli.r;d:)Ie  tlian  the  fotm- r 
estrangement.  At  lengih  Rovmello,  seeing  her  grow  more  and  more 
dejected,  her  benutilul  eyes  being  filled  with  tears  whenever  he 
/eturned  to  her,  after  even  an  hour's  absence,  bcg.in  to  inquire  the 
cause. 

"  Alas  !  "  she  snid,  "  I  have  cause  enough  to  weep  ;  for  I  am  trented 
here  with  such  a  cruel  kindness,  that  but  for  your  dear  love,  I  should 
wihh  myself  a  hundred  times  a  day  in  my  peaceable  grave  . — for  I  am 
assured,  every  hour,  that  tlie  souls  of  my  dear  honoured  parents  jire 
at  this  very  time  suffering  unspeakable  torments;  a  saving  which, 
«  hether  true  or  false,  ou;^ht  to  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  misery  or  dis- 
pleasure. To  aggravate  these  feelings,  the  confessor  Landino  exhorts 
me  ^o  constantly  to  secure  myself  from  the  like  perdition,  that  satisfied 
vith  a  heart  to  love  thee  withal,  I  wish,  sometimes,  that  I  had  no  soul 
at  all  to  care  for." 

Having  spoken  thus  with  some  bitterness  of  manner,  she  ?gain  fell 
a  wee[)ing  ;  whereupon  Rovinello,  touched  with  her  tears,  declared 
that  her  peace  should  no  longer  be  assailed  by  such  arguments  ;  and 
in  trutii,  having  sojou»ned  some  years  in  England,  his  own  sentiments 
on  such  matters  p.  rtook  of  the  liberality  and  freedom  wliich  belong 
seemingly  to  the  very  atmospiiere  of  that  fortunate  country.  Accord- 
ingly, after  making  various  excuses  to  his  mother,  he  set  off  with  his 
lady  to  a  country-seat,  which  was  situated  on  the  sea-coast  ;  and  here 
they  lived  tog<.ther  for  some  months  very  happily. 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  Rovinello  received  one  day  a  letter  which 
required  his  immediate  attendance  at  Rome,  and  taking  a  very  tender 
farewell  of  his  lady,  he  departed.  His  affairs  detained  him  four  or 
five  days  at  the  ca[)ital,  and  then  he  returned  home  with  all  possible 
speed,  indulging  in  a  thousand  fanciful  pictures  by  the  way  of  his 
wife's  joyful  endearments  at  his  return  ;  whereas,  when  he  reached  the 
house,  he  was  told  that  she  had  been  carried  off  by  force,  no  or.e  knew 
whither,  the  servants  being  taken  away  likewise,  in  the  middle  of  the 
ni.^ht.  A  Moorish  turban,  w'hich  had  been  left  in  one  of  tlie  rooms, 
supplied  the  only  clue  for  discovery  of  her  destiny,  for  in  tho.se  days  it 
was  a  common  thing  for  the  Algerine  rovers  to  make  a  descent  on  the 
Itaiian  coasts.  The  distracted  Rovinello,  therefore,  went  instantly  on 
shipboard,  and  required  to  be  carried  over  to  Africa,  intending  at  all 
perils  to  ransom  his  dear  lady,  or  partake  of  the  same  captivity.  There 
happened  to  be  a  neutrcd  ship  in  the  port,  so  that  he  engaged  a  vessel 
without  much  difficulty  ;  but  he  had  barely  been  out  at  sea  a  few 
h«  urs,  when  fresh  thoughts  flasiied  on  his  mind,  now  at  leisure  for 
deliberate  reflection,  and  mode  him  alter  his  course.  It  was  ascer- 
tained, from  other  vessels  they  fell  in  with,  that  no  Barbary  ships  had 
bei.n  seen  latterly  near  the  coast,  and  besides,  the  very  partial  plunder 
of  his  own  mansion,  in  the  midst  of  many  others,  made  it  seem  an 
improbable  act  to  have  been  committed  i)y  the  piiates  ;  he  ordered 
*lie  helm,  therefore,  to  be  put  down,  and  returned  immediatel"  to  the 
thore. 

Axid.  now  a  dreadful  question  began  to  agitate  his  mind,  vhick 


743  THE  VENETIAN  COUNTESS, 

v\'hether  with  or  without  reason,  was  very  afiflicting  to  entertain,  for  H 

seemed  impossible,  at  the  first  glance,  that  any  womanly  he.irt  could 
be  so  obdurately  cruel  and  tigerlike  as  wilfully  to  disjoint  the  m.irritd 
love  of  hmisrlf  and  his  lady  by  a  deed  so  atrocious  :  but  when  he 
recalled  the  s  rn  temper  of  his  mother,  and  above  all,  her  horrible 
malediction,  K  s  heart  quite  misgave  him,  and  d^'livcred  him  up  to 
the  most  dreadful  of  ideas.  It  was  rumoured,  indeed,  that  Landino 
had  lately  been  seen  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  there  were  other  sus- 
picious reports  afloat  amongst  tne  country-people  ;  but  these  things 
were  very  vague  and  contradictory,  and  all  wanted  confir"»,ition. 

The  miserable  Rovinello,  with  these  suspicions  in  his  bosom, 
repaired  instantly  to  Venice,  but  the  Countess  was  either  guiltless,  or 
else  dissembled  so  plausibly,  th.t  his  thoughts  became  more  bewilder- 
ing than  ever,  and  at  length,  through  grief  and  anxiety,  he  fell  into  a 
raging  fever.  His  mother  attended  upon  him  with  the  most  affection- 
ate assiduity,  almost  to  the  removal  of  his  doubts  ;  and  especially  as 
she  seemed  to  consider  his  bereavement  with  a  very  moderate  but 
sincere  sorrow  ;  whereas,  to  judge  by  the  common  rule,  if  she  had 
disposed  herself  of  the  unhappy  Englishwoman,  she  should  have  been 
constant  and  violent  in  her  expressions  of  condolence. 

In  this  manner  several  weeks  passed  away,  Rovinello  being  very 
languid  from  his  illness  ;  at  h.st,  one  day,  after  being  mora  agitated 
than  common,  he  desired  to  take  an  '-ring  with  his  mother  in  her 
coach,  and  was  observed  to  be  particular  in  giving  instructions  to  the 
driver  as  to  his  route.  The  man,  attending  to  his  commands  with 
exactness,  began  to  drive  very  slowly  towards  a  certa-'::  spot,  and  at 
length  stopped  immediately  in  front  of  those  terrible  Lions'  Heads  of 
the  Inquisition,  which  have  heretofore  swallowed  so  many  secret 
denunciations.  The  Countess  asking  with  some  terror  why  he  lin- 
gered at  that  spot,  ''  I  am  come  here,  mother,"  he  said,  "  to  await 
the  result  of  a  very  curious  speculation." 

With  these  words,  he  riveted  his  intense  eyes  upon  those  of  the 
Countess,  who  very  suddenly  turned  aside,  and  called  out  to  th« 
driver  to  go  on;  but  the  mm  reinained  still,  according  to  the  direc- 
tion of  Rovinello.  The  latter  had  now  raised  his  lean  hand  to  the 
coach-window,  and  pointed  to  the  gaping  jaws  that  received  the 
accusations. 

'•  Mother,"  said  he,  "pray  fix  your  eyeballs  steadfastly  upon  mine  ; 
and  now  tell  me,  have  you  never  fed  yonder  cruel  lions?" 

Hereupon  he  looked  steadfastly  upon  the  eyes  of  the  Countess, 
which  seemed  instantly  to  reel  in  their  sockets,  and  her  cheek  turned 
as  pale  as  ashes.  Rovinello,  convinced  of  the  guiltiness  of  his 
mother  by  her  looks,  did  not  wait  for  any  other  confession,  but 
plainly  saw  his  lady,  as  though  through  the  solid  stone  walls,  in  the 
dreary  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition.  In  the  meantime,  his  hand  had 
dropped  from  the  window  to  his  cloak,  where  he  had  concealed  a 
small  pistol,  loaded  with  two  balls  ;  and  setting  the  fatal  en-ine 
against  his  heart,  without  another  word  he  discharged  it  into  his 
bosom,  before  the  very  eyes  of  his  unnatural  parent. 

The  servants  getting  down  at  the  report,  ran  instantly  to  the  door 
Df  the  carriage,  which  was  filled  with  smoke,  so  that  at    first  ihsv 


THE  VENETIAN  COUNTESS.  743 

could  not  perceive  the  nature  of  the  calamity  ;  at  length  they  dis- 
cerned the  Countess,  leaning  quite  senseless  agninst  the  bark  of  the 
coach,  her  clothes  bedabbled  with  blood,  and  the  body  of  Rovinellc 
stooping  forward  upon  her  knees.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  quite  dead, 
wherelore,  placing  the  body  upon  a  kind  of  litter,  some  of  the  people 
carried  it  home  to  the  palace.  The  miserable  Countess  was  driver 
back  to  the  same  place,  where  she  continued  for  many  hours  in  frantif 
transports  of  horror  and  remorse  ;  and  when  she  became  calmer,  j 
was  only  from  her  strength  being  so  exhausted  that  siie  could  neith* 
rave  nor  writhe  herself  any  longer.  As  for  the  confessor  Landino,  he 
was  never  suffered  to  abide  an  insti^nt  in  her  presence,  though  he  made 
many  such  attempts, — the  mere  sitjht  of  him  throwing  the  wretched 
Countess  into  the  most  frightful  ecstasies. 

Some  days  after  the  catastrc.phe  of  Rovinello,  there  was  a  procession 
through  the  streets  of  Venice,  which  excited  a  lively  interest  amongst 
all  classes,  being  nothing  less  than  the  progress  of  certain  wicked 
heretics  to  the  stake,  where  they  were  to  be  burnt,  in  order  that  the 
Christian  spirit  might  revive,  like  a  phoenix,  out  of  the  human  ashes. 
There  had  not  been  a  festival  of  this  sort  for  some  time  before,  so  that 
the  people  prepared  for  it  with  great  eagerness,  all  putting  on  their 
holiday  clothes,  and  crowding  into  the  streets,  almost  to  their  mutual 
suffocation,  the  day  being  very  warm,  but  otherwise  as  fine  and 
serene  as  could  be  desired  for  such  a  ceremony. 

The  number  of  the  wretched  criminals  was  nine,  of  whom  there 
wns  one  woman.  Their  heads  were  all  shaved,  and  their  feet  bare, 
with  fetters  round  the  ankles  and  wrists  of  each  person.  They  were 
dressed  in  long,  yellow,  penitential  robes,  painted  all  over  with  fiery 
tongues,  or  flames,  except  on  the  back,  where  there  was  a  large  bloud- 
red  cross.  Their  caps  were  of  the  same  colours,  tall  and  pointed,  in 
shape  somewhat  like  extinguishers,  though  not  intended  for  that  use, 
and  each  of  the  wretches  held  in  his  left  hand  a  lighted  taper  ;  though 
this  ^)'d,v\.  of  the  show  was  rather  dimmed  by  the  brightness  of  the 
noontide  sun.  Certain  bare-headed  friars  walked  by  the  side  of  the 
criminals,  holding  up  the  cross  at  every  few  paces  before  their  melan- 
choly eyes,  and  exhorting  them  to  suffer  patiently,  and  without  any 
impieties,  to  which  the  doleful  creatures  made  answer  only  by  their 
boisterous  lamentations. 

There  were  two  of  the  procession,  however,  who  differed  in  this 
particular  from  the  rest,  the  first  of  them  having  become  an  atheist, 
itwas  said,  since  his  imprisonment  by  the  Holy  Office.  This  obdu- 
rate man  marched  along  erect  and  silently,  without  either  sigh  or 
groan,  to  the  sacrifice,  having  first  cast  his  taper  in  scorn  amongst  the 
populace,  who  would  fain  have  torn  him  in  pieces  for  this  act  of  con- 
tempt, but  for  the  consideration  that  he  was  going  to  make  a  more 
adequate  expiation. 

As  for  the  other  person  who  did  not  join  in  the  clamorous  outcries 
of  the  rest,  this  was  a  female,  young  and  beautiful,  and,  indeed,  the 
wife  of  the  unfortunate  Rovinello,  though  that  circumstance  was 
unknown  to  the  generality  of  the  spectators.  Her  luxuriant  hair  had 
all  been  cut  off,  and  she  wore  the  same  cap  and  robe  jf  humilia- 
tion with  the  others,  but  in  going  barefoot,  her  tender  small  white 


744  THE  VENETIAN  COUNTESS. 

feet  were  tipped  with  bloody  red,  like  the  morning  daisies,  through 
trampling;  on  the  rugged  flinty-hearted  stones.  Thus  she  marched 
beside  the  atheist,  not  a  whit  more  desponding  tlian  lie,  but  with  ,i 
better  hopf,  looking  often  upwards  towards  the  merciful  skies,  which 
contained  the  spirit  of  her  beloved  Rovinello.  The  multitude  beheld  her 
meekness  and  devout  submission,  for  so  it  seemed  to  them,  with  ^reat 
satisfaction,  nor  did  the  friars  omit  to  point  her  out  frequently,  for  the 
edification  of  the  bystanders. 

And  now,  being  come  to  the  appointed  spot,  which  was  a  convenient 
open  space,  the  usual  preparations  were  made  for  the  burning.  In 
the  middle  of  the  area  stood  four  goodly  stakes,  which,  as  well  as 
the  f.igi^ots,  had  been  smeared  over  with  pitch  and  tar,  that  they 
might  blaze  the  fiercer.  The  Chief  Inquisitor,  with  the  brethren  of 
the  Holy  Office,  were  comfortably  seated  in  front,  to  overlook  the 
spectacle,  and  on  either  side  the  court  and  the  nobility,  according  to 
their  degree  ;  meanwhile  the  common- rabble  got  such  places  as  they 
could,  some  of  them  even  hoisted  upon  the  shoulders  of  their  fellows. 
And  truly  it  was  a  goodly  sight  to  look  round  on  such  a  noble 
assemijlige,  in  their  robes  of  state,  the  very  common  people  havin'^ 
their  holiday  suits  on,  and  piety  and  contentment  shining  to^^ether  on 
every  countenance. 

After  sundry  tedious  formalities,  the  abominable  atheist,  being  the 
chiefest  heretic,  was  placed  foremost,  immediately  under  the  eyes  of  the 
Grand  Inquisitor,  who  desired  nothing  so  much  as  the  glory  of  his 
conversion.  The  priests  of  the  Holy  Office  therefore  used  a  thousand 
arguments  to  persuade  him  of  his  errors  ;  but  the  desierate  man 
refused  to  listen  to  their  discourse,  replying,  when  opportunity  offered, 
only  by  the  most  scornful  expressions.  Thus,  although  there  were 
three  friars  constantly  exhorting  him  at  one  time,  namely,  two  Car- 
melites and  a  Benedictine,  they  might  as  soon  have  persuaded  the 
north  wind  to  blow  southward,  as  the  current  of  his  impiety  to  take 
another  course. 

In  order  to  save  him  from  the  guilt  of  further  blasphemies,  tha 
Grind  Inquisitor  made  a  sign  for  the  faggots  (the  priests  having  first 
duly  blessed  them)  to  be  heaped  around  his  feet,  hoping  by  this  prepara- 
tion to  terrify  him  into  recantation,  whereas  the  unshrinking  heretic 
looked  on  with  the  greatest  composure.  Observing  that  he  smiled, 
the  Grand  Inquisitor  demanded  the  cause  of  his  mirth — for  they  wers 
near  enough  to  hold  a  conference  together. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  said  he,  "  how  \onder  bald-pated  monks,  who  are 
flinching  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  will  be  able  to  bear  the  fiery  circles 
of  glory  which  they  promise  themselves  about  their  crowns." 

At  this  scoffing  answer,  his  case  seeming  trulv  desper.ite,  and  his 
heresy  incurable,  the  fire  was  ordered  to  be  applied  without  further 
delay  to  the  faggots,  which  kindling  up  briskly,  the  scornful  counte- 
nance of  the  infidel  was  soon  covered  over  by  a  thick  cloud  of  smoke. 
As  soon  as  the  flames  reached  his  flesh,  a  sharp  cry  of  anguish  was 
heard  through  the  upper  vapour,  and  a  priest  stepping  close  in  to  the 
stake,  inquired  if  the  criminal  yet  repented  of  his  damnable  errors. 

'*  1  called  out,"  said  he,  "  only  for  a  little  of  your  holy  water." 


THE  VENETIAN  COUNTESS.  745 

The  friar,  overjoyed  at  this  triumph,  stepped  back  with  all  haste  to 
get  some  of  the  sanctified  element,  and  began  to  sprinkle  him, 

"  Nay,"  quotii  the  relapsing  heretic  ;  "  I  meant  it  only  to  be  bestowed 
on  the^e  scorching  faggots." 

At  this  fresh  contempt  the  wood  was  stirred  briskly  up  again,  and 
sent  forth  redoubled  volumes  of  fire  and  smoke,  so  that  it  was  evident 
he  would  soon  be  consumed.  The  flames  lapping  him  quickly  all 
round,  and  driving  the  smoke  into  the  upper  region,  the  burning  figure 
could  plainly  be  distinguished  in  the  midst,  now  thoroughly  dead,  the 
wretched  man  having  been  stifled  in  the  beginning  of  the  fire.  Not- 
withstindiiig,  on  a  sudden  there  was  a  loud  shout  from  the  people,  "  He 
is  praying  !  He  is  praying  !  "  and,  lo  !  the  scorched  black  carcase 
was  seen  plainly  to  lift  its  clasped  hands  towards  the  skies.  Now  the 
case  was  this,  that  the  .cords  which  confined  his  arms  being  burnt 
asunder  by  chance,  before  those  which  bound  his  wrists,  his  arms  by 
the  contraction  of  the  sinews  were  drawn  up.vards,  in  the  manner  I 
have  described — however,  the  multitude  f.incied  quite  otherwise,  and 
the  atheist  is  affirmed  to  have  become  a  convert  to  this  very  day. 

A  couple  of  wicked  perverse  Jews  having  been  disposed  of  in  the 
like  way  (the  rest  of  the  criminals,  save  tiie  female,  being  recusanti; 
who  had  been  brought  to  the  stake  only  for  the  sake  of  exr.mjile) — 
there  remained  but  the  young  Englishwoman  to  be  dealt  with.  Dur- 
ing the  burning  of  the  others,  she  had  remained  tied  to  the  stake  with 
the  faggots  about  her  feet,  and  the  confessor  Landino  by  her  side,  who 
promised  himself  much  glory  from  her  conversion,  whereas  she  never 
condescended  to  listen  to  his  harangues,  but  with  eyes  turned  upward, 
and  her  mind  absent,  and  in  a  better  place,  continued  her  secret  pray- 
ers with  much  fortitude  and  devotion.  The  dreadful  firebrand,  which 
was  made  of  three  torches  twisted  into  one,  to  typify  the  holy  mystery, 
being  brought  in  readiness  to  kindle  the  fire,  Landino  besought  her  to 
consider  whether  her  tender  body  could  endure  such  torments. 

"  liy  tlie  help  of  God,"  she  replied,  "  I  will.  The  smoke  of  your  last 
offering  is  already  in  the  skies,  and  my  spirit  is  fain  to  follow." 

The  Grand  Inquisitor  hearing  this  answer,  delivered  with  such  a 
resolute  tone  and  look,  made  a  sign  to  Landino  to  let  him  speak. 

"Miserable  child!"  he  cried,  "do  you  believe  that  the  souls  of 
heretics  enjoy,  at  the  very  first,  that  blessed  ascension.?  Wretched, 
wretched  creature,  you  will  learn  otherwise  in  purgatory!" — and  he 
made  a  sign  for  the  torch  to  be  thrust  into  the  pile. 

"At  least,"  interrupted  Landino,  "at  least  confess  the  tender  mercy 
of  the  holy  church  thou  contemnest,  who  thus,  by  this  charitable  pur- 
gation of  thy  body,  redeems  thy  soul  from  everlasting  perdition  ;  by 
these  flames  temporary,  absolves  thee  from  flames  eternal." 

"  My  parents,"  replied  the  lady  very  meekly,  "  were  both  Protestants  ; 
and  It  seems  most  IJecoming,  at  this  last  hour  of  my  life,  to  continue 
in  that  faith  whereunto  they  bred  me.  As  for  your  flaming  charity,  I 
j.ray  God  that -it  may  not  be  repaid  to  you  in  kind,  at  the  great  day  of 
judgment;"  with  which  answer  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  set  herself 
steadfastly  as  if  she  would  hear  no  more  speeches. 

The  confessor  Landino,  who  heretofore  had  been  unable  to  makw 
any  impression  on  her  firmness,  hereupon  gave  up  all  hope  of  p^^vailing 


f4<5  A   TALE  OF  THE  HAREM. 

over  her  quiet  but  constnnt  spirit ;  but  as  for  the  Grand  Inquisitor,  hi 

was  quite  beyond  his  patience.  "  Let  her  be  burned  !  "  he  cried  ;  \\  hich 
command  was  performed  without  delay. 

At  the  first  sharp  pang  of  the  cruel  flames,  a  sudden  flush,  a-;  though 
of  red-hot  blood,  mounted  up  into  the  marble  cheeks  of  the  unfortuna'te 
hidy,  and  she  drew  her  breath  inwards  with  a  very  long  shuddering 
sigh.  The  reflection  of  the  increasing  fire  soon  cast  the  same  ruddy 
hue  on  the  countenances  of  all  the  spectators,  for  the  flames  climbed 
with  merciful  rapidity  up  her  loose  feminine  garments.  Those  who 
were  nearest  saw  her  head  drop  suddenly,  as  she  choked  upon  her 
bosom  ;  and  then  the  cords  burning  through  and  through,  the  whole 
lifeless  body  tumbled  forward  into  the  embers,  causing  a  considerable 
flutter  of  dust  and  smoke  ;  and  when  it  cleared  away,  there  was  no- 
thing to  be  seen  but  a  confused  heap  of  ashes  and  dvi'ng  embers. 

Thus  perished  that  lovely,  unhappy  English  gentlewoman,  in  he/ 
prime  of  youth,  far  away  from  all  that  regarded  her  with  love,  and  with 
few  that  looked  on  her  with  any  degree  of  pity.  And  now  the  people 
were  about  to  depart  with  mutual  congratulations,  when  suddenly  there 
arose  a  great  bustle  towards  the  quarter  of  the  Grand  Inquisitor,  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  Countess  Rovinello,  in  deep  mourning,  was  seen 
kneeling  at  his  feet.  Her  face  was  quite  haggard  and  dreadful  to  look 
upon,  and  her  dress  so  disordered  as  to  make  her  seem  like  a  maniac, 
but  her  gestures  were  still  more  frantic-like.  Whatever  her  suit  mit^ht 
be,  the  inquisitor  seemed  much  ruffled,  and  got  up  to  depart  ;  but  she 
seized  hold  of  his  gown  and  detained  him,  whilst  bhe  continued  to 
pit  ad  with  great  earnestness. 

"  You  are  too  late  !  "  he  said,  and  withal  he  pointed  his  wand  of  office 
to  the  heap  of  black  ashes  that  stood  before  him. 

The  countess,  letting  go  her  hold,  went  and  gazed  for  a  minute  on 
the  cmders  ;  then  stooping  down  and  gathering  up  a  handful  of  the 
dust,  she  returned,  and  before  he  was  aware,  strewed  some  on  the  head 
of  the  inquisitor,  and  the  remainder  upon  her  own. 

"  Let  these  ashes,"  she  said,  "  be  in  token  of  our  everlasting  re- 
pentance." 

After  this  awful  ceremony,— neither  of  them  without  signs  of  remorse 
in  their  countenances,— they  separated  to  console  themselves  as  they 
might  for  their  parts  in  this  melancholy  tragedy. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM. 

IN  the  mnritime  warfare  between  the  Genoese  and  the  Turks, 
though  the  Mussulmans  were  worsted  in  nine  battles  out  of  ten,  it 
happened  sometimes  that  one  or  two  galleys  of  our  own  were  taken  by 
the  infidels  ;  and  tiiroiigli  one  of  these  mi-haps  an  Italian  gentleman 
named  llenetto,  who  was  a  singing-master,  and  on  his  p  ss.ige  to 
Englaiui,  became  a  captive  to  the  enemy.  Being  a  verv  resolute'inan, 
he  fought  till  there  were  more  slashes  in  his  cloihes  than  had  been 
fashioned  by  the  tailor  ;  but  the  crew  being  mastered  by  a  superior 
force,  the  musician  was  put  in  chains  on  board  of  the  Turkisii  ship. 


A  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM.  ^47 

""he  latter  havtng  L^n  well  mauled  in  the  engagement,  with  many 
vow  pellets  sticking  in  her  sides,  and  her  tackling  in  a  state  of  great 
disorder,  made  all  tlie  sail  she  could  mto  port,  where  the  captives 
were  disposed  of  as  slaves  to  the  highest  bidder. 

Now  it  chanced  luckily  for  Beneito,  that  he  was  purchased  by  an 
agent  of  the  Sultan  of  Constantinople,  and  sent  to  work  as  an  assistant 
in  the  gardens  of  the  Seraglio  ;  whereas  others,  being  bought  bv 
avaricious  people,  underwent  a  variety  of  changes,  passmg  from  one 
master  to  another,  but  without  any  difference  for  the  better  in  their 
condition.  The  fortunate  Benetto,  en  the  contrary,  led  an  easy  life 
enough,  having  only  to  tend  upon  the  flowers  and  shrubs  for  the 
gratincation  of  the  ladies  of  the  Harem;  and  what  proved  a  groat 
comfort  to  him  was,  that  he  had  no  mistress  to  mourn  for  in  a  distant 
country  ;  so  that  though  he  sighed  sometimes  for  liberty,  he  never  gave 
himself  up  to  despondency  like  the  rest  of  the  captives. 

Thus  he  continued  to  dig,  and  water  the  plants  very  contentedly, 
as  though  he  had  been  born  for  that  task,  bemg  a  man  of  that  happy, 
cheerful  disposition  which  can  accommodate  itself  to  any  circumstances ; 
and  besides,  the  superintendent  of  the  pleasure-grounds  was  of  as 
pleasant  a  humour  as  himself,  which  tended  very  materially  to  his 
ease.  And  truly  it  was  well  that  Benetto  kept  up  a  better  heart  than 
the  captive  Jews  in  Babylon  ;  for  he  had  by  nature  a  melodious  voice, 
improved  by  art  to  great  perfection,  the  science  of  music  having  been 
his  peculiar  study  ;  and  oitentimes  he  beguiled  himself  after  his  day's 
Work  by  singing  over  his  most  favourite  airs. 

The  apartment  of  the  ladies  of  the  Harem  stood,  luckily,  at  such  a 
convenient  distance,  that  Benetto's  voice  found  its  way  through  the 
windows,  which  were  sure  to  be  left  open  every  night,  for  the  sake  of 
the  warbling  of  the  nightingales  that  harboured  amongst  the  trees. 
The  discourse  of  the  ladies  turning  one  evening  on  the  ravishing  notes 
of  that  bird,  and  its  amours  with  the  rose,  there  came  a  deep  sigh 
from  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  sultanas,  a  Circassian,  and  she  affirmed 
that  there  was  a  voice  more  enchanting  than  that  which  had  been  so 
much  commended. 

"As  for  the  bird  it  belongs  to,"  she  said,  "to  judge  from  his  tune, 
he  must  be  of  a  most  delicate  figure  and  plumage  ;  ior  though  1  cannot 
make  out  a  single  word,  there  seems  a  most  passionate  meaning  in 
whatever  he  sings." 

At  this  speech,  one  of  the  ladies  burst  into  tears,  and  leaned  down 
her  beautiful  face  between  her  hands  ;  for  she  was  an  Italian  by  birth, 
and  remembered  well  the  sweet  languishing  and  love-breathing  ditties 
of  her  native  land  ;  the  rest  of  the  women  crowding  abo«t  her  at  these 
symptoms  of  emotions,  and  inquiring  the  reason, 

"  Alas  !  "  she  sobbed,  "  the  songs  that  you  hear  come  from  no  bird, 
but  from  a  huinan  voice,  which  belongs  to  some  unfortunate  captive 
from  my  own  dear  country  beyond  the  sea.  I  wonder  not  that  yott 
found  it  so  touching,  for  that  kind  of  melody  belongs  naturally  to  our 
clime.  The  songs  there  are  so  full  of  love  and  tenderness,  th  .t  the 
amorous  rose,  instead  of  merely  opening  her  bosom  as  she  does  to  the 
song  of  the  bulbul,  would  put  forth  wings  in  place  of  leaves,  to  fly  afle* 
the  musician." 


74*  A  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM. 

Nor  did  the  fond  lady  speak  beyond  her  feeling  in  this  matter,  so 
dearly  does  memory  exaggerate  the  merits  of  thin:^s  beloved.  Anon 
the  clear  voice  vA  Benetto  sounded  agam  upon  the  distant  wind  ;  and 
when  it  was  silent,  the  mournful  lady  res[)onded  with  a  canzonet  so 
exquisitely  pathetic,  that  the  listeners,  though  they  did  not  comprehend 
even  one  sellable  of  the  words,  were  melted  instantly  into  tears.  The 
singer  herself,  coming  <nt  lust  to  a  certain  passage,  which  seemed  to 
cause  the  very  breal<ing  of  her  heartstrings,  was  so  ovt-rcome,  that  slie 
could  proceed  no  farther  ;  but,  with  a  throat  swelling  with  grief  instead 
of  harmony,  cast  herself  upon  a  sofa,  and  gave  way  to  an  ecstasy  of 
tears. 

In  the  meantime  Benetto,  hearing  the  voice  in  the  garden,  had  drawn 
near  to  the  window,  and  recoj;nised  the  song  to  be  one  of  the  com- 
positions tif  Italy,  which  set  his  heart  aching  more  seriously  than  evt-r 
since  he  had  been  a  captive.  However,  he  soon  plucked  up  his 
spirits  ;  and  congratulating  himself  that  there  was  one  perron  at  least 
in  Constantinople  to  take  part  with  him  in  a  duet,  he  concerned  him- 
self only  to  contrive  how  to  get  admitted  to  the  concert. 

Accordingly,  choosing  the  best  of  his  pieces,  he  sang  them  in  the 
garden  every  night  with  the  tenderest  expression,  the  ladies  being  al- 
ways confined  after  dusk  within  the  palace.  At  last,  the  Sultan 
happening  to  hear  his  music,  had  a  mind  to  enjoy  it  nearer  ;  so,  sending 
a  slave  to  fetch  the  gardener  into  an  ante-chamber,  which  wis  separ- 
ated from  that  of  the  ladies  only  by  a  silken  curtain,  Benetto  was 
commanded  to  sing  some  of  his  btst  songs.  As  he  executed  them  in 
very  excellent  style,  the  Sultan,  who  h  id  a  good  ear  enough  for  an 
infidel,  was  exceedingly  pleased  with  the  performance.  Commending 
the  musician,  therefore,  in  very  gracious  terms  to  Angelina,  for  that 
was  the  name  of  the  ItaUan  lady,  she  made  bold  to  answer  him  as 
follows : — 

"  Sire,  I  agree  with  yonr  Majesty,  that  the  slave  has  a  sweet  voice, 
and  an  agreeable  style  of  singing  ;  notwithstanding,  there  are  several 
of  the  airs,  and  especially  one  piece,  which,  as  far  as  I  remember  of 
the  music,  a-"  capable  of  much  tenderer  expression  By  your  Majesty's 
leave,  if  I  might  hear  that  song  once  or  twice  over,  I  think  I  could 
rememlier  the  variations,  which  I  think  would  afford  your  Majesty  an 
increase  of  pleasure." 

The  Sultan,  who  was  passionately  fond  of  her  voice,  immediately 
commanded  Benetto  to  sing  over  again  the  last  song,  and  which  was 
an  air  capable  of  very  melancholy  cadences.  Now  Angelina  was  an 
improvisatnce,  and  could  compose  verses  at  pleasure,  so  when  it  came 
to  her  turn  to  sing,  she  set  extempore  words  in  Italian  to  the  music, 
which  spoke  to  the  following  effect : — 

"  Ah,  Florence  !  fair  Florence  !  city  of  my  heart,  shall  I  never  behold 
thee  again  .'' 

"  There  are  marble  walls  between  us,  and  gates  of  brass — but  my 
thoughts  go  wandering  up  and  down  thy  familiar  streets  ! 

"  Methinks  I  see  my  beloved  home,  with  the  very  flowers  that  I  left 
growing  upon  the  terrace  1 


A  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM.  749 

•Methinks  I  see  thee,  gentle  Arno,  shining  merrily  in  the  sun  ! 

"Alas  !  my  tears  wash  out  this  dream,  like  the  colours  on  a  cloud 
full  of  rain. 

"  I  look  again  ;  and  behold,  there  is  nothing  left  but  my  prison 
waU  I » 


When  she  hnd  done  singing,  Benetto,. taking  the  hint,  replied  in  the 
same  manner,  but  with  less  eloquence  ;  telling  her,  in  plain  languaj^e, 
to  keep  up  her  heart,  and  that  by  God's  help  she  should  one  day  see 
Florence  again.  The  concert  being  then  ended,  he  was  dismissed, 
with  a  piece  of  gold  as  a  mark  of  the  approbation  of  the  Sultan. 

The  next  day,  when  the  superintendent  of  the  pleasure  grounds  was 
•walking  about  the  royal  gardens,  Benetto  came  up  to  him  and  asked 
for  a  saw,  in  order  to  cut  down  a  certain  noxious  tree.  The  super- 
intendent desiring  to  know  which  it  was,  Benetto  pointed  out  a  par- 
ticular tree,  with  a  number  of  horizontal  branches  growing  very  closely 
together,  but  the  Turk  would  by  no  means  suffer  it  to  be  cut  down. 
It  was  of  so  rare  a  kind,  he  said,  that  he  did  not  know  even  its  name  ; 
but  Benetto,  who  had  his  wits  about  him,  and  knew  that  there  was  no 
other  tree  in  the  garden  so  likely  for  his  purpose,  did  not  give  up  the 
matter  without  another  trial. 

Accordingly,  taking  care  never  to  bestow  any  water  upon  the  plants 
within  a  certain  distance  of  the  tree,  there  being  at  the  same  time  a 
long  drought,  they  soon  sickened  and  withered  up  ;  whereupon  leading 
the  suuerintendent  to  the  spot,  he  pointed  out  this  effect. 

"  This  baneful  tree,"  said  he,  "  of  the  name  of  which  you  are  so 
ignorant,  is  without  question  the  deadly  Upas  of  the  island  of  Java, 
which  is  of  so  poisonous  a  quality  that  it  will  not  suffer  any  vegetable 
to  grow  under  the  shadow  of  its  branches.  Look  how  the  herbs  round 
it  have  all  perished,  as  if  they  had  been  scorched  up  with  fire  ;  and,  as 
I  have  read,  the  human  life  is  quite  as  liable  to  be  affected  by  its  per- 
nicious atmosphere.  Thus,  if  any  of  the  ladies  of  the  Harem  should 
by  chance  fall  asleep  under  it,  I  doubt  it  would  be  as  fatal  as  the  Tree 
of  Knowledge  to  their  grandmother.  We  might  as  well  chew  the 
deadly  leaves,  as  that  anything  of  this  kind  should  happen  ;  for  our 
death  would  be  as  certain  in  one  case  as  in  the  other.  For  my  own 
part,  though  the  least  splinter  of  this  cursed  wood  is  mortal  if  it  should 
enter  into  the  flesh,  1  will  cheerfully  undertake  the  hazard  of  cutting 
down  this  dangerous  trunk,  rather  than  have  such  a  dreadful  responsi- 
bility hanging  continually  over  my  head.'' 

The  good-natured  superintendent  agreeing  with  the  prudence  of  this 
recommendation,  Benetto  got  permission  to  cut  down  the  tree  as  fast  as 
he  would,  which  he  did  not  fail  to  perform  ;  and  after  lopping  away 
all  tiie  branches  on  two  sides  of  the  stem,  in  the  manner  of  an  espalier, 
he  set  down  the  tree  carelessly  in  a  by-corner  of  the  garden. 

The  same  evening  Benetto  was  sent  fur  as  before,  to  sing  in  th» 
ante-chamber  ;  and  beginning  with  the  .same  melancholy  air,  thera 
came  a  voice  suddenly  through  the  silken  screen,  commanding  him  to 
desist. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  the  Sultan,  as  he  turned  to  Angelina, 


7S0  A  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM. 

who  was  sitting  beside  him  on  a  sofa  in  the  inner  room  ;  "  I  havebeea 
thinking  that  I  should  lilce  now  to  hear  some  lively  tune  :  the  songs  I 
have  heard  hitherto,  though  very  beautiful,  were  all  of  a  melancholy 
cast  ;  and  I  am  curious  to  know  whether  the  genius  of  your  music 
will  admit  also  of  comical  expression." 

"  I  can  assure  your  Highness,"  said  the  lady,  "  there  is  no  country 
that  can  boast  of  such  pretty  little  laughing  canzonets  as  my  own,  for 
though  we  have  borrowed  many  strains  frum  the  nightingale,  we  have 
others  that  warble  as  merrily  as  the  carol  of  the  morning  lark." 

"  You  make  me  impatient  to  hear  one,"  replied  the  Sultan  ;  where- 
upon an  attendant  was  sent  to  convey  this  command  to  Benetto,  who 
immediately  struck  up  a  very  lively  tune  ;  and,  as  he  had  good  news 
to  communicate,  he  sang  with  unbounded  gaiety  and  spirit.  The 
words  ran  thus  : — 

"  Ladders  there  are  none  in  this  place,  neither  of  ropes  nor  of 
wood! 

"  But  I  have  a  pretty  tree,  with  many  branches,  that  will  stand  up- 
right against  a  wall  ! 

"  What  if  I  should  place  it  against  a  lady's  prison,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night? 

"  Shall  I  see  a  vision,  like  Jacob,  of  a  figure  stepping  down  my 
ladder,  who  looks  like  an  angel  of  light.'"' 

The  lady,  being  overjoyed  at  these  welcome  tidings,  sang  with  an 
equal  glee,  and  made  answer  by  the  same  tune  in  a  similar  way. 

"  O  joy  of  joys  ! — To  hear  this  grateful  news,  there  seems  now  but  a 
mile,  paved  with  wishes,  between  Florence  and  me. 

"  I  feel  myself  already,  like  a  bird  with  wings,  amongst  those  pleasant 
boughs  ! 

''  Step  by  step,  as  I  descend,  I  pluck  the  sweet  apples  of  liberty 
which  relis  h  even  as  the  fruits  of  my  own  dear  land  ! " 

It  happened  that  the  piece  they  had  been  singing  had  a  pretty  little 
burthen  at  the  end  for  two  voices  ;  so  that  when  the  lady  came  to  that 
part,  Benetto  joined  in  with  the  proper  chorus  of  the  song,  to  the  great 
admiration  of  the  Sultan,  who  ordered  him  a  piece  of  gold  on  his  dis- 
missal, which  seemed  to  make  the  captive  defer  his  plot  for  another 
ni-ht. 

On  the  following  day,  about  noon,  when  the  superintendent  as  usual 
came  into  the  gardens,  he  was  amazed  to  see  Benetto  working  at  a 
parterre  with  an  extraordinary  kind  of  hoe,  the  handle  of  which,  rudely 
fashioned  and  rough,  could  not  be  less  than  a  dozen  feet  long.  The 
jolly  Turk,  tucking  his  hands  in  his  sash,  fell  to  laughing  immoder- 
;itely  at  this  whimsical  si.;ht,  for  Benetto  wielded  his  implement  with 
considerable  awkwardness  ;  at  last,  fetching  his  breath  again,  he  in- 
qnirtd  the  reason  of  such  an  extraordinary  appearance. 

Benetto,  without  turning  his  head  aside,  answered  very  sedately,  tho/ 
it  was  the  universal  custom  of  his  country  to  use  hoes  with  handles  of 
that  len;^th. 

"Now  (iod  forgive  me  ! "  answered  the  Mussulman  ;  "  but  you  have 


M  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM.  751 

made  me  long  to  travel,  since  there  are  such  wonderful  scenes  to  be 
enjoyed  abroad  : "  and  wiih  that  he  fell  into  a  fresh  convulsiou  of 
laughter. 

In  the  meantime  Benetto  continued  his  work  with  inflexible  gravity, 
though  the  exertion  he  used  to  handle  the  hoe  with  dexterity  made 
the  sweat-drops  start  out  like  great  beads  upon  his  forehead.  At  last, 
being  fain  to  obtain  a  pause,  he  explained  to  the  Turk,  who  had  done 
laughmg,  that  it  was  common  in  Italy  to  employ  those  long-handled 
hoes,  in  order  to  reach  the  weeds  in  the  middle  of  a  parteire  without 
trampling  amongst  the  plants. 

"  There  is  some  reason  in  what  you  say,"  returned  the  superinten- 
dent ;  and  taking  the  tool  out  of  the  hand  of  Benetto,  he  made  aim  at 
certain  weeds  in  the  middle  of  the  bed  ;  but  at  the  very  first  stroke  he 
mowed  down  a  whole  cluster  of  flowers. 

Thereupon  bursting  into  a  fresh  fit  of  mirth  at  his  own  clumsiness, 
the  merry  Turk  thrust  the  wonderful  hoe  back  again  into  the  hand 
of  the  >4ardener,  who  resumed  his  labour  with  grt- at  earnestness  ;  the 
Mussulman  in  the  meanwhile  walking  away,  but  often  turning  his 
head  over  his  shoulder  to  look  back  at  Benetto,  who,  as  soon  as  the 
old  fellow  had  gone  out  of  sight,  laid  down  the  ponderous  hoe  with 
very  great  good-will,  and  began  to  chuckle  in  his  turn. 

When  the  hour  for  music  was  come,  he  was  summoned  again  to  the 
ante-chamber,  where  he  had  the  boldness,  whilst  he  waited,  to  steal  a 
peep  through  a  crevice  of  the  silken  curtain,  and  discovered  that  his 
countrywoman  was  quite  as  beautiful  a  person  as  his  fancy  had  sug- 
gested. He  had  taken  care  to  compose  some  fresh  words  for  the 
occasion,  as  well  as  to  set  them  to  another  air,  which  he  had  not  sung 
on  any  of  the  preceding  nights  :  it  had  also  a  part  for  two  voices, 
which  tlie  lady  happened  to  know,  and  the  Sultan  was  so  delighted 
with  the  livehness  of  the  music,  that  he  made  them  sing  it  to  him 
sevtrral  times  over.  At  last,  just  as  they  were  commencing  the  chorus 
for  the  fourth  time,  his  face  very  suddenly  altered,  from  the  greatest 
pleasure  to  a  look  of  gloom  ;  and  he  turned  his  brows  with  such  a 
frown  upon  the  lady,  that  she  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a 
note. 

"  How  is  this  "i"  said  he  :  "I  understand  nothing  of  the  language, 
but  I  can  perceive  that  you  sing  different  words  to  the  music  every 
time  that  it  is  repeated." 

Angelina  blushed  and  hung  down  her  head  at  this  abrupt  question, 
for  she  could  invent  verses  with  far  more  facility  than  excuses.  At 
last  she  told  him,  that  it  was  usual  in  Italy  to  leave  the  words  of  such 
auy  little  songs  to  the  fancy  of  the  singers,  and  that,  except  when 
those  happened  to  be  persons  of  wit  and  genius,  the  verses  were 
always  composed  of  the  most  common-place  expressions. 

The  Sultan  listened  to  this  explanation  with  a  very  grave  look,  and 
after  meditating  a  while,  spoke  thus  :  "  Madam,  you  must  not  take  it 
ill  of  me,  but  hereafter  I  shall  desire  the  Dragoman  (or  Interpreter)  to 
partake  with  me  in  the  delight  of  hearmg  you.  He  is  as  fond  of 
music  as  I  am,  and  will  be  able  to  satisfy  me  whether  the  poetry  of 
'.>hat  you  sing  is  answerable,  in  sentiment,  to  the  music." 

The  lady  and  Benetto  both  suspected,  from  the^e  expressions,  that 


fS»  A  TALE  OF  l^HE  HAREM. 

the  Sultan  entertained  some  mistrust  of  them  ;  and  therefore,  whet 
they  sang  again,  it  was  with  some  quaverings  which  did  not  belong 
to  the  composition.  The  Sultan  at  length  signifying  that  he  had 
heard  enough,  the  singers  desisted,  and  Benetto  «as  dismissed,  foi 
this  once,  without  any  piece  of  gold,  the  Sultan  intending  secretly  tc 
reward  him  on  the  morrow  with  two  hundred  stripes  of  the  bastinado. 

As  soon  as  Benetto  found  his  opportunity,  he  repaired  therefore  tc 
the  garden,  convinced  that  it  was  tmie  to  put  his  design  into  execu- 
tion. The  skies  fortunacelv  were  full  of  clouds,  making  the  ni;4ht  very 
obscure,  except  at  some  intervals,  when  the  moon  broke  thro'ugh  the 
vapours  ;  so  that  he  set  about  his  work  in  the  gloom  with  the  greater 
confidence.  Having  learned  at  least  the  art  of  transplanting  during 
his  service  in  the  gardens,  his  first  step  was  to  convey  the  tree,  which 
has  been  already  mentioned,  towards  the  apartment  of  Angelina, 

Now,  her  chamber  opened  upon  a  long  gallery  or  balcony  on  the 
outside  of  the  harem,  against  which  Benetto  rested  the  tree  as  securely 
as  he  could  :  nor  was  this  an  easy  performance,  for  it  was  as  heavy  as 
he  could  well  carry,  so  that  his  joints  even  cracked  beneath  the  weight. 
After  resting  awhile  to  regain  his  breath,  he  began  to  mount  up  his 
extempore  ladder  ;  and  as  the  branches  w  ere  very  close  together,  the 
ascent  was  quite  an  easy  affair.  Thus,  he  was  able  to  look  in  at  the 
lady's  window  in  a  very  few  seconds  ;  but,  alas  !  though  he  had  not 
wasted  a  minute  that  could  be  saved,  he  was  already  too  late,  as  will 
presently  appear. 

It  is  a  barbarous  custom  with  the  Turks,  when  they  conceive  any 
jealousy  or  disgust  of  their  miitresses,  to  tie  them  np  in  sacks  and 
cast  them  into  the  water;  the  sea,  which  is  the  object  of  marriage 
with  the  Venetian  Doges,  being  to  the  Ottoman  Sultans  the  instrument 
of  Aivorce.  As  soon,  then,  as  Benetto  looked  in  at  the  window,  his 
eyes  were  shocked  by  the  sight  of  three  black,  savage-looking  slaves, 
who  were  preparing  for  this  cruel  ceremony,  the  victim  being  no  other 
than  his  own  unfortunate  countrywoman.  Her  mouth  having  been 
gagged  beforehand,  she  could  not  utter  any  cries  ;  but  with  her 
hands  she  made  the  most  piteous  supplications  to  the  cruel  Moors, 
two  of  whom  held  the  mouth  of  the  gaping  sack  wide  open,  whilst  the 
other  with  his  rude,  profane  hands  endeavoured  by  force  to  bind  her 
delicate  limbs. 

The  territied  Benetto,  who  comprehended  this  scene  at  the  first 
peep,  felt  such  a  shock  as  a  sleeper  who  oversteps  a  precipice  in  his 
dream.  A  sudden  swimming  in  his  head  made  him  ready  to  tumble 
off  the  tree  ;  but  luckily  his  body  was  leaning  against  the  rail-work  of 
the  gallery,  so  that  he  could  not  fall  :  in  the  meantime  he  was  quite 
exposed  to  view  from  the  wmdow,  but  the  blacks  were  so  thorouglily  em- 
ployed, that  they  had  not  time  to  cast  a  look  that  way.  After  a  minute 
or  two,  resuming  his  presence  of  mind,  he  bent  down  his  body  so  as 
to  be  concealed  behind  the  gallery,  and  in  this  uneasy  posture  deliber- 
ated within  himself  how  he  ought  to  proceed.  His  first  impulse  was 
to  rush  in  upon  the  ruffianly  slaves  ;  but  recollecting  that  he  had  no 
weapon,  and  that  such  an  assault  could  but  delay  the  fate  of  the  lady 
for  a  few  moments,  he  resolved  on  a  more  prudent  course. 

Taking  down  his  ladder,  therefore,   which  now  seemed  twice  ax 


M  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM,  J^ 

bnrthensome  as  before,  and  his  heart  a  great  deal  heavier,  he  set  up 

the  tree  agninst  the  wall  of  the  garden,  on  the  side  next  the  water, 
whose  murmurings  through  the  stillness  of  the  ni-ht  lie  could  suffi- 
ciently di-tini^uisii. 

It  took  hnn  but  a  few  moments  to  clamber  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  bv 
the  help  of  the  friendly  tree  ;  \\  hich,  however,  was  too  cumber^-ome  to 
be  dragged  up  after  him  in  order  to  effect  a  descent  on  the  oiher  side. 
Ill  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  this  would  have  been  the  natural  oversight 
of  a  man  intent  upon  tlie  first  step  of  his  cscai  e  ;  whereas  the  ingeni- 
ous Benetto  had  foreseen  and  provided  against  this  difficulty.  In  a 
few  minutes,  therefore,  he  was  safely  landed  on  the  other  side  ;  and, 
without  doubt,  the  superintendent,  who  ridiculed  the  gardener's  long 
hoe,  would  have  chanL;ed  his  tone  to  see  it  hanging;  on  the  outer  part 
of  the  wall,  for  the  accommodation  of  Benetto  ;  for  by  this  means  he 
let  himself  down  with  ease,  the  handle  reaching  within  a  few  yards  of 
the  ground. 

And  now  the  moon,  breaking  a  way  through  a  sullen  cloud,  behind 
the  chinks  of  which  she  had  sometimes  just  glimmered  like  a  bright 
fish  entangled  in  a  net,  be,L;an  to  touch  every  object  as  with  a  silver 
wand  :  Benetto  found  it  necessary,  therefore,  to  shelter  himself,  like 
a  man  who  shunned  his  own  shadow,  by  going  into  the  obscurest 
places,  creeping  on  in  this  manner  from  tree  to  tree  and  from  wall  to 
wall,  till  he  reached  the  water-side  :  but  in  what  direction  he  sht)uld 
next  proceed,  in  order  to  intercept  the  lady,  was  a  question  that  got 
no  better  answer  than  those  which  are  addressed  to  the  echo. 

Whilst  he  was  thus  wandering,  the  three  black  slaves,  having  tied 
vip  the  unfortunate  lady  in  the  sack,  proceeded  with  their  burthen,  as 
they  were  directed,  towards  a  lonely  place  on  the  banks  of  the  Bos- 
phorus,  in  order  to  bestow  her  in  her  last  bath  with  tlie  ^^reater  privacy. 
Now  it  happened,  through  the  goodness  of  God,  that  there  was  an 
English  ship  of  war  then  lying  off  at  anchor,  having  brought  over  an 
ambassador  to  the  Sublime  Porte  ;  and  some  of  the  sailors  and  junior 
officers,  desiring  a  frolic,  had  put  otT  secretly  in  the  ship's  boat,  and 
landed  about  the  same  spot. 

These  jovial  men  wandering  about  the  shore,  it  fell  out  that  they 
encountered  with  the  blacks  ;  and  being  minded  to  joke  with  them, 
some  of  the  sailors  inquired  by  signs  wh;it  they  carried  in  that  poke. 
The  slaves,  not  caring  to  disclose  the  truth,  made  answer  that  it  was 
some  rotten  wheat  which  they  were  going  to  cast  into  the  sea  ;  and 
with  that,  they  endeavoured  to  get  away,  not  caring  to  have  to  do  with 
drunkards,  for  the  mariners  rolled  about  a  good  deal,  as  they  are  apt 
to  do  on  the  dry  land.  Now  the  lady,  wlio,  though  gag^d,  had  yet 
the  use  of  her  ears,  had  overheard  the  question  of  tne  sailors  ;  and 
whilst  the  slaves  were  answering,  she  began  to  wriggle  herself  about 
in  the  sack  as  violently  as  she  could.  The  sailor  wiio  stood  nearest, 
observing  this  motion,  did  not  fail  to  notice  it  to  his  comr.ides,  and 
they  became  speedily  as  curious  as  himself  to  ascertain  what  it  was 
that  struggled  so  in  the  sack.  The  blacks,  however,  who  relished  tht  m 
very  little,  still  endeavoured  to  break  away,  whereas  tlie  strangers 
were  equally  bent  upon  their  own  satisfaction,  so  that  the  parties  came 
in  a  little  while  to  blows.     The  sturdy  seamen  prevailing,  and  gettiny 


XS4  A  TALE  OF  7 HE  HAREM. 

possession  of  the  sack,  they  soon  discovered,  with  great  indignation, 

the  nature  of  its  contents  ;  whereupon  the  cowardly  blacVs,  not  waiting 
for  the  buffets  which  tliey  were  certain  to  receive,  took  instantly  .o 
their  heels,  and  were  out  of  sight  in  a  minute. 

The  English  sailors,  who  can  melt  upon  a  proper  occasion  as  loarliiy 
as  their  own  pitch  and  tar,  were  infinitely  concerned  at  the  condition 
of  the  poor  lady  ;  wherefore,  after  releasing  her  limbs, .as  well  a;i  ner 
tongue,  which  was  not  backward  in  thanks  to  her  deliverers,  they 
rowed  back  with  all  diligence  to  the  ship,  where  Angelina  was  treated 
with  every  kind  of  tenderness  and  attention. 

The  discomfited  blacks  in  the  interim  had  got  under  the  shadow  of 
a  high  wall,  where  they  sat  down  to  take  breath  ;  and  after  wee|iing 
together  for  a  while,  they  all  opened  their  mouths  at  once  with  the 
same  question,  to  ask  what  was  to  be  done. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  one,  *'  I  am  not  weeping  thus  merely  because 
the  lady  has  escaped,  for  we  could  easily  devise  a  lie  to.^ether  and 
declare  that  the  job  was  done.  But,  alas  !  I  know  that  the  chief  of 
the  eunuchs,  old  Abdalla,  is  so  careful,  that  he  will  be  waiting  for  us 
at  the  ducking  place,  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  that  she  is  thrown 
in." 

The  slaves,  knowing  this  to  be  the  most  likely  case,  began  to  shed 
tears  again,  and  howled  in  a  low  tone  very  dismally,  for  they  felt  that 
their  heads  were  only  fastened  by  a  packthread  to  their  shoulders. 
At  last,  Mezrou,  who  was  the  eldest,  spoke  as  follows  : — 

"Our  case,"  said  he,  "is  indeed  critical,  so  that  my  neck  smarts 
already  to  think  of  the  result.  On  the  one  hand,  if  we  tell  any  lie, 
there  is  that  accursed  old  chief  of  the  eunuchs  to  detect  us  ;  and  on 
the  other,  if  we  confess  the  simple  truth,  our  heads  will  still  fly  otf, 
because  we  did  not  fight  with  those  sea-devils  to  the  last  extremity. 
I  see  therefore  but  one  way  to  escape  out  of  this  scrape,  which  is,  by 
putting  some  trick  upon  Abdalla.  And  now  I  think  of  it,  there  is  a 
certain  Frank  lives  hereabouts,  who  keeps  a  great  sow  pig  in  his  back- 
yard ;  and  at  the  next  house  there  is  a  baker,  where  we  may  obtain  a 
sack.  Now,  if  the  swine  were  tied  up  fitly,  and  her  head  well  muffled 
in  my  sash,  so  as  to  keep  her  from  either  grunting  or  squealing,  I 
think  the  deception  might  pass  ;  but  it  must  be  dispatched  very 
quickly." 

The  other  slaves  thinking  favourably  of  this  scheme,  they  ran  off 
together  to  the  house  of  the  baker,  who  was  in  bed  ;  but  they  obliged 
him  to  get  up  and  give  them  an  empty  flour  sack  ;  after  which,  going 
to  the  pigsty  of  the  Frank,  they  secured  his  sow  in  the  sack,  with  a 
little  difficulty.  Then  taking  up  the  burthen  between  them,  which 
was  full  as  lively  as  the  other  had  been,  they  trotted  gaily  down  to  the 
water-side,  where  tht-y  soon  perceived  some  person  pacing  to  and  fro, 
whom  they  took  at  the  first  glince  for  Abdalla.  Going  strai.Lht  up  to 
him  therefore,  without  any  mistrust,  they  all  called  out  together,  that 
they  had  brought  the  lady  to  be  drowned,  which  was  ai^reeable  news 
enough  to  the  man,  for  in  truth  it  was  no  other  than  Benetto,  who 
had  been  wandering  up  and  down  the  shore,  in  the  greatest  uncertainty 
and  despair. 

The  words,  then,  had  no  sooner  got  clear  of  the  thick  foolish  lips  of 


A  TALE  OF  THE  HAREM.  TJJ 

llie  blacks,  thnn  the  musician  be?an  to  deal  about  him  so  roundly, 

that  the  foremost  was  laid  sprnwling  in  a  twinkling  upon  the  earth. 
The  otlier  two,  at  this  sight,  foreseeing  that  they  should  have  use  for 
all  the  hands  they  had,  immediately  pitched  down  the  sack  with  very 
little  ceremony  ;  and  any  one  may  conceive  how  this  action  increased 
the  fury  of  Benetto. 

The  battered  swine  resenting  the  outrage  as  much,  and  feeling  her- 
self more  at  liberty,  began  at  the  same  moment  to  struL;;4le  vehemently 
within  the  sack,  so  that  she  partly  released  her  nostrils  from  the  sash, 
and  began  to  call  out  with  all  her  brutal  breath  for  liberty. 

Thus  the  rage  of  Benetto,  whenever  he  began  to  faint,  was  roused 
up  again  by  these  half-stifled  cries  ;  which,  strugglmg  partly  through 
the  canvas  and  the  linen,  were  equivocal  enough  to  be  mistaken  for 
the  voice  of  Angelina,  even  by  the  ear  of  a  musician.  These  excite- 
ments lending  him  treble  courage  and  vigour,  he  was  quite  a  match 
fur  the  three  slaves  together,  notwithstanding  they  fought  lustily  ;  and 
doubtless  something  tragical  would  have  ensued  but  for  the  thiiftiness 
of  the  baker. 

This  careful  man,  grudging  to  lend  a  new  sack  to  strangers,  had 
picked  out  an  old  one,  the  canvas  of  which  was  very  rotten  and  full 
of  patches  ;  so  that  as  Benetto  glanced  his  eyes  every  now  and  then 
towards  the  sack,  to  give  himself  fresh  encouragement,  on  a  sudden 
the  cloth  ripped  up  with  a  smart  report,  and  the  huge  sow,  jumping 
briskly  out,  went  cantering  off  homewards,  with  the  sash  round  her 
head,  and  grunting  all  the  way  to  denote  her  satisfaction. 

The  blacks,  through  this  accident,  having  nothing  to  contend  f>r, 
gave  over  the  contest  ;  and  after  a  little  grinnin;^  scampered  awj.y  after 
the  pig,  to  make  up  what  story  they  could  to  the  chief  of  the  eunuchs. 

As  for  Benetto,  he  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  stared  on  the 
remains  of  the  s.ick  like  one  who  had  just  witnessed  some  great  stroke 
of  enchantment.  No  sight,  in  truth,  could  have  c  lused  him  such  an 
astonishment,  unless,  indeed,  the  spectacle  of  a  sow  turning  before  his 
eyes  into  a  lady,  for  he  had  made  certain  of  Angelina  bemg  within  the 
sack,  even  to  the  seeing  of  her,  in  fancy,  through  her  veil  of  canvas. 
At  last,  coming  to  his  senses,  and  catching  sight  of  the  English  vessel, 
his  thoughts  began  to  turn  upon  his  own  safety  ;  and  stripping  off  his 
jacket  and  turban,  he  began  to  swim  toward  'he  ship,  though  with 
great  difficulty,  on  account  of  his  bruises. 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  his  transp'  ts,  when  he  came  on 
board  and  discovered  Angelina  :  wherefore,  le,  Ihat  topic  be  left  un- 
touched, as  well  as  the  mirth  which  prevailed  at  the  relation  of  his 
adventures.  The  ship  setting  sail  immediately  for  England,  after  a 
prosperous  passage  the  two  happy  Italians  disembarked  at  London, 
where  Benetto,  by  his  skill  in  music  and  excellent  singing,  acquired 
an  immense  fortune  in  a  very  few  years.  In  the  meantime  he  espoused 
Angelina,  and  finally  returned  with  her  to  Florence,  where  they  lived 
for  many  years  in  great  happiness  and  very  merrily  ;  for  neither  oi 
them  could  ever  smell  pork,  or  pass  by  a  hogsty,  without  an  inclination 
to  laughter. 

As  for  the  three  blacK  slaves,  they  wore  their  head;  some  years 
longer  than  they  expected,  the  lie  they  made  up  beiiifj  credited  b/ 


756  THE  CHESTNUT  TREE. 

Ab^lalla,  the  chief  of  the  eunuchs,  who  had  never  stirred  out  from  tha 
palace.  Tlie  superintendent  of  the  pleasure-grounds  was,  however, 
more  unlucky,  for  he  suffered  some  hundred  stripes  of  the  bastinado 
on  the  soles  of  his  feet,  for  allowing  the  innc^tions  of  Benetto.  In 
consecjuence,  there  are  no  more  upas-'.rees  t»-  Oe  found  in  the  royal 
gardens;  and  the  slavesdab  mr,  even  unto  »i5  very  day,  with  hoes 
that  are  but  a  yard  long  in  the  handle. 


THE  CHESTNl  f  TREE, 

IT  is  a  deplorable  custom  with  spe  idthrifts,  when  their  purses  are 
empty,  to  rephmish  them  at  the  cost  of  the  dryads,  often  cutting 
down  the  very  trees  that  have  shells-red  the  most  venerable  of  their 
ancestors,  as  well  as  the  timber  which  wants  many  years  of  its  proper 
growtii,  according  to  the  pressure  of  their  wants.  Many  foolish 
persons,  a<;ain,  under  false  pretences  of  taste,  will  root  up  the  sheltering 
woods  ;ind  copses,  that  made  comfortable  fences  agamst  the  inclement 
wind,  thus  letting  in  the  unmitigated  tempest  to  rage  against  their 
bleak,  naked  mansions  ;  both  parties  being  equally  mischievous  in 
their  way.  There  are  other  persons,  however,  who  cut  down  their 
oaks  and  cheetnuts  for  much  better  reasons,  as  you  shall  presently 
hear. 

A  certain  hidalgo  was  walking  in  a  lonely  plain,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Granada,  when  he  was  suddenly  attacked  by  a  small  wild 
Spanish  bull.  The  spiteful  creature,  with  red  sparkling  e\es,  and  a 
body  as  l^lack  as  any  coal,  made  a  run  at  the  gentleman  so  niml^ly, 
that  he  had  barely  time  to  save  himself  by  climbing  up  a  large 
chestnut-tree  ;  whereuv)on  the  wicked  beast  began  to  toss  about  the 
loose  earth  with  great  fury,  instead  of  the  human  clay  he  had  intended 
to  trifle  with. 

There  is  no  sucli  creature  in  the  world  as  your  bull  for  a  revengeful 
memory,  for  he  will  cherish  affronts  or  dislikes  for  a  considerable 
while  ;  and  besides,  he  takes  great  pleasure  in  any  premeditated 
mischief,  which  he  will  pursue  with  a  vast  deal  of  patience.  Thus, 
whenever  the  hidalgo  set  his  foot  upon  the  ground,  the  wily  animal, 
who  had  kept  at  a  convenient  distance,  immediately  ran  at  him  agam. 
so  that  he  was  forced  to  betake  himself  to  the  tree  with  the  utmost 
alacrity.  Then  the  bull  would  stray  farther  off,  still  keeping  a  wary 
eye  towards  the  tree,  but  feeding  in  the  meantime  so  quietly,  that 
every  thought  of  malice  seem  d  to  have  quite  gone  out  of  his  round, 
roguish  head  ;  whereas  he  was  ready  at  a  twinkling  for  a  fresh  career, 
his  perseverance  excelling  that  of  grimalkin,  when  she  sits  watching 
at  a  mouse's  street-door. 

The  impatient  hidalgo,  weary  at  heart  of  this  game,  where  all  his 
moves  tended  to  no  purpose,  at  last  gave  up  the  point,  and  remo'cd 
higher  up  in  the  tree,  in  order  to  amuse  himself  with  the  surrounding 
prospect,  which  was  now  enlivened  by  the  oblique  rays  of  the  declining 
sun.  "  I  will  wait,"  said  he,  "  till  nii^ht  makes  a  diversion  in  my  favour, 
ard,  like  the  matadore,  hangs  her  cloak  on  this  wild  devil's  horns  ;  "  sff 


THE  CHESTNUT  TREE.  yjy 

forning  himself  about  from  side  to  side,  he  began  to  contemplate  the 

various  objects  in  the  distance. 

Whilst  he  was  ihus  occupied,  with  his  eyes  turned  towards  the  east, 
there  came  two  men  on  foot  from  the  opposite  quarter,  who,  passing 
beyond  the  tree,  approached  the  browzing  bull  without  any  kind  of 
mistrust.  The  dissembling  creature  allowed  them  to  come  pretty 
near,  without  any  suspicion  ;  and  then  suddenly  charging  at  the  two 
men,  they  were  obliged  to  run  to  the  tree  as  the  only  shelter,  and  with 
great  difficulty  clambered  out  of  reach  of  his  mischievous  horns.  The 
animal,  being  thus  foiled  for  the  second  time,  revenged  himself  on  the 
hat  of  one  of  the  travellers,  w|iich  had  been  dropped  in  the  race,  and 
then  began  to  feed  again  at  the  usual  distance. 

The  two  pedlajs— for  so  they  seemed — made  several  attempts,  like 
the  hidalgo,  to  getaway,  but  the  bull  still  intercepted  them  in  the  same 
manner  ;  so  thrit  at  last  they  were  fain  to  dispose  themselves  as  com- 
fortably as  they  <:ould  on  a  lower  branch,  and  await  the  plt-asure  of  the 
animal,  to  proceed'on  their  way.  The  hidalgo,  being  a  shy,  reserved 
man  by  nature,  as  well  as  very  haughty  on  account  of  his  nation  and 
his  birth,  did  not  choose  to  make  any  advances  towards  his  fellow- 
lodgers  in  the  tree,  who  by  their  dress  were  people  of  the  common 
sort.  The  two  men,  on  their  part,  knew  nothing  of  a  third  person 
being  perched  above  their  heads  ;  wherefore,  to  pass  away  the  time, 
they  began  to  talk  over  their  affairs  together,  with  as  much  confidence 
as  if  they  had  been  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  great  Arabian 
Desert. 

At  first  the  hidalgo,  being  much  occupied  by  his  own  reflections, 
did  not  listen  very  attentively  to  their  discourse  ;  besides,  he  had  a 
great  contempt  for  the  conversation  of  such  vulgar  persons,  which 
would  have  prevailed  over  any  common  curiosity  ;  however,  as  some 
sentences  reached  him  against  his  will,  he  happened  to  overhear  a 
name  passing  between  them  that  made  him  prick  up  his  ears. 

"I  am  afraid,  Gines  Spinello,"  said  one  of  the  voices,  "that  this 
cursed  creature  will  spoil  our  sport  for  to-night." 

Now  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  gentleman  became  so  much  interested 
in  their  conversation,  for  the  fellow  just  mentioned  was  a  notorious 
robl)er,  and  the  terror  of  the  whole  province.  The  hidalgo,  therefore, 
felt  a  natural  curiosity  to  behold  so  remarkable  a  ch.iracter  ;  and 
peeping  down  very  cautiously  between  the  leaves,  he  saw  the  two 
men  sitting  astride,  with  their  faces  towards  each  other,  on  the  lowt-t- 
mor.t  bough.  They  were  so  much  below  him,  that  he  could  not  judge 
of  their  physiognomies  ;  but  of  course  the  very  hair  of  their  heads 
seetiaed,  to  his  fancy,  to  partake  of  a  very  ruffianly  expression. 

"As  for  that  matter,"  returned  Spinello,  "our  job  to-night  is  a 
trifling  one  that  may  be  dispatched  in  two  hours.  What  trets  me 
more  is  to  be  obliged  to  sit  thus,  cock-horse,  upon  a  cursed  branch  ; 
for  I  have  always  a  misgiving  at  getting  up  into  a  tree,  since  nothing 
has  proved  so  fatal  to  several  of  our  gang." 

The  other,  laughing  heartily  at  these  expressions,  which  he  sup- 
posed to  allude  to  the  gallows,  Gines  interrupted  him  in  a  very  grave 
tone. 

"  I  mean  no  such  matter,"  said  he,  "as  you  conclude.     The  gibbel 


lrs8  THE  CHESTNUT  TREE. 

indeed  has  made  an  end  of  some  of  us ;  but  the  trees  I  mean  wer« 
as  much  growing  and  flourishing  as  this.  It  was  a  chestnut  too,  that 
cost  so  dear  to  poor  Lazarillo  ;  wherefore,  I  would  ratlier  that  this  tree 
had  been  a  cypress,  or  a  yew  even,  or  of  some  other  kind." 

"  For  my  part,  chestnut  or  not,"  said  the  other,  "  I  feel  myself  much 
beholden  to  this  good  plant  :  notwithstanding,  I  should  like  to  hear 
what  happened  to  Lazanllo,  and  the  others  of  the  gang." 

The  hidalgo  by  this  time  was  quite  as  much  interested  in  the  mis- 
hap of  L  izarillo  :  so  laying  himself  along  the  bough,  and  grasping  it 
with  both  his  arms,  he  stooped  his  he.id  sideways  as  low  as  he  could, 
to  listen  to  the  story  that  Gines  was  going  to  relate. 

"  You  are  aware,"  said  Spinello,  "  that  when  we  have  no  affair  of 
monaent  ujion  our  hands,  which  requires  us  to  go  in  companv,  it  is 
usual  for  some  of  the  cleverest  amongst  us  to  go  abroad  singlv,  on 
little  adventures  of  their  own.  Thus  it  befel  Lazarillo  to  t.ike  it  in 
his  head  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  certain  hidalgo,  who  resides  not  a  long 
way  from  this  spot.  There  was  a  clump  of  chestnut  trees  in  front  of 
the  house,  all  of  them  of  wonderful  bulk,  having  stood  there  a  great 
many  years,  and  it  was  the  season  when  they  were  in  full  leaf. 
Lazarillo,  coming  a  little  too  soon,  and  seeing  a  great  many  lights  in 
the  windows,  clambered  up  into  the  greatest  of  these  trees,  which 
stood  nearest  to  the  house,  in  order  to  hide  himself  till  dark,  as  well 
as  to  observe  what  was  going  on  within  the  house.  The  boughs  being 
very  broad  and  smooth,  he  found  his  nest  comfortable  enough  ;  a.ndl 
besides,  he  was  very  well  diverted  to  watch  the  motions  of  the  servants, 
for  some  of  the  branches  grew  against  the  chamber  windows,  so  that 
he  could  even  see  how  the  people  bestowed  the  plate  and  v.iluables 
against  the  night.  Whilst  he  was  amusing  himself  in  this  way,  the 
hidalgo,  v/ho  had  been  out  sporting,  came  homewards  with  his  fowl- 
ing-piece in  his  hand  ;  when  just  at  this  nick  there  flew  up  some  large 
kind  of  bird,  and  made  off  directly  for  the  tree." 

"  Well,  wherefore  do  you  stop?"  asked  the  other  rogue  very  eagerly, 
for  at  these  words  Gines  had  made  a  tolerably  long  pause. 

"  I  was  thinking,',"  said  Gines,  "  that  I  he,.rd  a  rustling  overhead  ; 
but  it  was  only  some  breeze  amongst  the  leaves.  I  suppose  the 
hidalgo  was  willing  to  discharge  his  gun  before  he  entered  the  house, 
for  it  was  loaded  with  very  large ''shot,  which  are  never  used  to  kill 
birds  with  ;  however,  he  fired  after  the  fowl  into  the  very  middle  of 
the  leaves,  and  the  devil  guiding  the  lead,  some  of  it  went  into  the 
body  of  poor  Lazarillo,  who  tumbled  in  a  trice  to  the  ground.  If  the 
shot  had  not  killed  him,  the  fall  would  have  broken  his  neck,  so  that 
he  was  stone-dead  upon  the  spot  :  however,  to  made  sure  of  that 
matter,  our  governors  made  a  point  of  hanging  him  afterwards  upon 
another  tree." 

Herewith  Gines  vented  a  thousand  horrible  imprecations  against 
the  unfortunate  sportsman,  who  had  the  evil  luck  to  be  sitting  at  that 
very  moment  above  his  head.  The  unhappy  hidalgo,  though  he 
was  miserably  terrified,  dared  not  even  to  quake— the  le.ist  motion 
causing  a  rustling  among  the  leaves,  or  a  ere. iking  of  the  bough  ;  and 
getting  cramped,  as  any  one  must,  to  ride  so  long  on  a  wooden  chest* 
nut  horse,  without  a  saddle,  yet  he  could  not  venture  to  stretch  a  linili 


THE  CHESTNUT  TREE.  751 

to  relieve  himself  In  the  meantime,  fear  caused  such  a  boiling  noise 
in  his  ears,  as  if  of  the  devil's  cauldron  at  a  gallop,  that  he  could  not 
make  out  the  his'jory  of  the  other  robbers  who  had  perished  by  means 
of  the  trees.  The  two  rogues,  on  the  contrary,  finding  themselves 
very  much  at  their  ense,  continued  to  gossip  together  with  great  cooU 
ness,  though  the  bull  had  now  removed  to  a  considerable  distance. 
The  hidalgo,  at  last,  resuming  the  use  of  his  faculties,  overheard  as 
follows : — 

"As  for  the  chestnut  trees,"  said  Gines,  "you  will  see  the  stumps 
of  them  to-night,  for  the  hidalgo  did  not  choose  to  leave  a  perch  for 
any  more  such  birds  so  near  his  house.  But  there  are  other  ways 
to  know  what  goes  on  within,  as  well  as  by  looking  through  the 
windows  ;  and  we  shall  soon  see  whether  the  people  of  this  random 
shooter  nre  more  properly  his  servants  or  my  own." 

At  this  insinuatiun,  the  wTCtched  person  who  sat  aloft  could  not 
help  uttering  a  half-stifled  groan,  which  would  have  infallibly  betrayed 
him,  if  it  had  not  passed  for  the  grumbling  of  the  bull.  Notwith- 
standing, he  had  to  endure  still  worse  tidings  ;  to  conceive  vhich, 
suppose  Gines  to  describe  the  abominable  plot  he  had  laid  for  the 
murder  of  the  hidalgo— two  of  his  servants  being  in  the  pay  of  tlie 
banditti,  and  engaged  to  admit  them  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  The 
rogues  did  not  omit,  moreover,  to  dispose  of  the  two  daughters  of 
the  unfortunate  gentleman  overhead  ;  and  as  their  inclmations 
pointed  differently,  the  one  choosing  the  youngest,  and  the  other  the 
elder  lady  for  a  mistress,  they  soon  came  to  an  amicable  understand- 
ing on  this  part  of  the  design.  Thus  the  hidalgo,  who  had  always 
intended  to  match  his  children  as  he  would,  without  question  even  of 
the  girls  themselves,  was  obliged  to  hear  them  disposed  of  before- 
hand, and  without  having  any  voice  whatever  in  the  affair. 

The  encroaching  dusk  closing  round,  in  the  meantime,  till  the 
horizon  was  confined  within  a  very  narrow  circle,  the  two  villains  at 
last  dismounted  from  the  bough,  and  proceeded  on  their  way  without 
any  interruption  from  the  bull,  who  was  now  scarcely  visible,  amid  the 
distant  shadows.  As  soon  as  the  rogues  were  out  of  sight,  the  hidalgo 
scrambled  down  the  trunk,  to  the  infinite  relief  of  his  limbs,  which 
from  long  confinement  to  the  same  posture  had  grown  as  rigid  and 
almost  as  crooked  as  the  boughs  they  had  embraced  :  however,  the 
thoui;ht  of  what  was  to  take  place  at  home  soon  enforced  a  supple- 
ness in  his  joints,  and  he  departed  with  a  brisk  shuffling  pace,  from 
what  had  been  to  him  such  a  very  bitter  tree  of  knowledge. 

The  dreadful  fear  which  had  lately  possessed  his  bosom  turning, 
row  that  he  was  in  safety,  to  the  most  revengeful  feelings,  he  vo\ved, 
as  he  went  along,  that  Gines  and  his  i^ang  should  suffer  in  retaliation 
by  the  most  exquisite  torments.  In  this  furious  mood,  with  clenched 
hands  and  teeth,  and  terrible  emphatic  steps,  he  entered  his  own  house, 
and  repaired  straight  into  the  apartment  of  his  daughters  ;  who,  seeing 
tte  flaming  beacons  of  wrath  in  his  countenance,  were  ready  to  swoon 
V  ith  dismay.  It  alarmed  them  the  more,  that  they  had  not  expected 
Lim  to  return  for  the  night,  and  being  ignorant  of  the  true  occasion, 
they  were  led,  by  certain  misgivings  of  their  own  hearts,  to  impute  ins 
anger  to  a  very  different  cause,  wherefore  coming  together  with  clasped 


r6o  THE  CHESTNUT  TREE. 

hands,  to  kneel  down  at  his  feet,  they  besought  him  with  many  tearg 
to  be  more  calm  and  temperate. 

At  another  time  this  strange  conduct  would  have  astounded  the 
hidalgo,  whereas,  having  other  concerns  in  his  mind,  he  did  not  stop 
to  sift  out  the  mystery,  but,  in  as  few  words  as  he  could,  explamed  the 
danger  that  was  hanging  over  their  heads.  The  tuo  terrified  maidens, 
at  this  horrible  report,  instantly  forgot  all  other  fears,  for  the  mere 
words  conjured  up  the  figures  of  the  banditti  upon  the  vacant  air  ;  l)ut 
when  the  hidalgo  came  to  spenk  of  the  design  of  the  robber  and  his 
comrade,  how  they  were  to  make  mistresses  of  the  two  ladies,  they 
sent  up  together,  as  if  from  one  throat,  a  shrill  involuntary  scream. 
Anon,  running  hastily  to  different  closets,  for  the  greater  danger 
always  swallow  up  the' less  in  this  manner,  they  dragged  forward  a 
brace  of  young  comely  gallants,  who,  on  their  part,  seemed  ready 
enough  to  protect  them  from  Gines  and  his  associates. 

The  two  chamiions,  as  well  as  the  hidnlgo,  were  somewhat  discon- 
certed by  tliis  abrupt  introduction  to  each  ( ther,  and  the  pile  lily  of 
fear  th.it  had  blown  on  the  checks  of  the  damsels  was  burned  up  by  a 
deep  crimson  blush.  At  last  one  of  the  cavaliers,  addressing  himself 
to  the  hidalgo,  began  to  speak  for  both  after  this  manner : — 

"  Sir,  I  know  that  you  cannot  behold  us  with  any  welcome  ;  and 
yet,  for  my  own  part,  I  am  heartily  thankful  that  we  are  here.  Not- 
withstanding the  ungracious  method  of  our  introduction,  we  beg  so 
much  favour  of  you,  as  to  be  considered  "entlemen  for  the  present, 
and  respecters  of  good  mnnners,  who  desire  nothing  better  than  to 
make  amends,  by  our  timely  services,  for  an  untimely  intrusion.  By 
your  good  leave,  therefore,  we  will  help  to  defend  these  ladies  against 
the  robbers, — and  as  we  are  men  of  honour,  it  shall  be  left  to  your  own 
discretion,  whether  you  will  bestow  them  upon  us  hereafter." 

As  the  young  gentleman  spoke  this  with  an  air  of  great  modesty  and 
sincerity,  the  hidalgo  thought  fit  to  accept  of  the  assistance  that  was 
offered  ;  whereupon  they  began  to  consult  together  on  the  steps  which 
should  be  adopted  in  such  an  extremity.  Accordingly,  it  was  con- 
certed to  send  for  the  two  traitorous  servants,  one  by  one,  into  the 
chamber,  where,  as  soon  as  they  entered,  they  were  seized,  and  bound 
hand  and  foot  before  they  could  think  of  any  resistance.  The  wretched 
men,  finding  themselves  in  this  dreary  plight,  and  that  their  lives  were 
at  command,  began  readily  to  confess  all  they  knew  of  the  plot  ;  add- 
ing several  particulars  which  had  not  been  touched  upon  by  Spinello. 
Amongst  other  news,  it  came  out  that  the  banditti  had  deposited  their 
arms  in  readiness  in  a  certain  hollow  oak,  which  stood  in  the  rear  of 
the  house  ;  whereupon  the  hidalgo  made  a  vow,  inwardly,  to  cut 
down  that  dangerous  tree,  as  he  had  done  before  by  the  chestnuts. 

It  was  towards  midnight,  when  Spinello,  with  his  comrades, 
approached  for  the  execution  of  their  design.  The  night  was  very 
boisterous,  with  frequent  gusts  of  wind,  that  drove  the  low  black 
clouds  with  great  rapidity  across  the  sky.  Thus  every  now  and  then 
there  was  a  short  bright  glance  of  the  moon,  followed,  at  a  few  minutes' 
interval,  by  the  most  profound  shadows  ;  and,  by  the  help  of  those 
snatches  of  light,  the  desperate  Gines  led  on  his  fellows,  who  wcrd 
«bout  half-a-dozen  in  all,  towards  the  hollow  tree. 


THE  CHESTNUT  TREE.  J^i 

Now  it  happened,  just  as  he  came  up,  that  a  fresh  cloud  came  ovei 
the  face  of  the  moon,  so  that  the  mnrk  he  aimed  at  was  quite  swallowed 
op  in  the  gloom.  Groping  his  way,  therefore,  with  his  hands,  he 
began  to  feel  about  the  ragged  stem  for  the  entry  to  the  magazine  ; 
but  he  had  no  sooner  thrust  his  arms  into  the  opening,  than  they  were 
seized  by  some  person  who  was  concealed  within  the  hollow  trunk. 

I  know  not  whether  Gines  recalled,  at  this  moment,  his  superstition 
about  a  tree,  but  he  set  up  a  loud  yell  of  dismay.  The  hidalgo,  who 
lay  close  by  in  ambush,  with  his  paYty,  instantly  discharged  a  well- 
aimed  volley  at  the  rest  of  the  banditti,  who  finding  themselves 
Detrayed,  and  without  arms,  took  at  once  to  their  heels,  leaving  two 
that  were  miserably  wounded  upon  the  grass.  By  this  time,  Spinello, 
recovering  his  courage,  made  a  desperate  struggle  to  get  away  ;  but, 
before  he  could  disengage  his  arms,  the  hidalgo  came  up  with  his 
assistants,  and  the  robber  was  quickly  overcome  and  secured.  Of  the 
other  two  men,  one  was  already  dead,  the  bullet  having  lodged  in  his 
breast :  as  for  the  second,  his  leg-bone  was  broken  by  a  ball  just  above 
the  ankle-joint,  and  it  happened  that  this  was  the  very  same  rogue 
who  had  gossipped  with  Gines  upon  the  chestnut-bough. 

It  was  a  dreadful  sight  to  behold  the  countenance  of  the  latter,  when 
he  was  dragged  into  the  chamber,  and  how  he  foamed  and  gnashed 
his  teeth  at  the  two  desponding  varlets,  who  had  been  double  traitors, 
he  supposed,  to  both  masters.  Although  he  was  so  securely  bound, 
those  wretched  men  could  not  look  upon  him  without  an  extreme 
trembling ;  however,  when  he  was  informed  of  the  true  cause  of  the 
discovery,  he  raved  no  more,  remarking  only  to  the  other  robber  that 
his  misgiving  about  the  chestnut  tree  had  been  justified  by  the  event. 

The  hidalgo  repairing  afterwards,  with  the  two  young  gentlemen, 
into  the  presence  of  his  two  daughters,  there  ensued  many  compliments 
between  them,  and  joyful  congratulations  on  the  conclusion  of  the 
danger.  At  last,  the  hidalgo  growing  more  and  more  pleased  with 
the  graceful  manners  and  conversation  of  his  guests,  his  heart  warmed 
towards  them,  and  he  began  to  wish  that  they  were  all  but  his  sons. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "a  late  welcome  is  better  than  none  at  all, 
and  especially  when  it  comes  maturely  from  the  heart.  Pray  accept 
of  this  apology  for  my  tardiness,  and  for  your  great  services  I  will  try 
to  make  amends  to  you  on  the  spot.  Your  gallantry  and  agreeable 
bearing  persuade  me  that  you  are  truly  the  honourable  young  persons 
that  you  have  named  to  me  ;  and  I  rejoice,  therefore,  for  my  own  sake 
as  well  as  yours,  that  my  daughters  remain  at  my  disposal.  If  you  are 
willing  then  to  accept  of  each  other,  I  foresee  no  difficulties — that  is 
to  say,  provided  you  can  both  agree  in  your  election,  as  readily  as  my 
other  two  robbers." 

It  would  be  hard  to  declare  whether  the  two  ladies  were  most  happy 
or  confused  by  this  unexpected  proposal  ;  they  therefore  made  off,  with 
fewer  words  than  blushes,  to  their  own  bedchamber  ;  but  the  three 
gentlemen  sat  up  together,  for  security,  during  the  remainder  of  tha 
night. 

On  the  morrow  the  criminals  were  delivered  to  the  proper  authoritieS| 
ftnd  the  process  with  such  atrocious  offenders  being  very  summary, 
they  were  executed,  before  sunset,  in  divers  places  about  the  province 


t6t  THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  LUDGATE.      " 

For  the  most  part,  they  were  suspended  on  lofty  wooden  gibbets  j 
but  the  body  of  Spinello,  in  order  to  make  the  greater  impression,  wa» 
huncr  up  on  the  very  same  chestnut  tree  that  had  led  to  his  defeat. 


THE  FAIR  MAID    OF  LUDGATE. 

THE  reign  of  King  Charles  the  Second  of  England  was  marked  by 
two  great  public  calamities  :  the  first  of  them,  that  memorable 
Plague  which  devastated  London  ;  and  then  followed  that  deplorable 
Fire  which  destroyed  such  a  large  portion  of  the  same  devoted 
metropolis. 

It  happened  shortly  before  the  pestilence,  that  the  King  had  a  design 
to  serve  in  the  city  ;  wherefore  he  rode  that  way  on  horseback,  attended 
only  by  the  Lord  Rochester,  and  one  or  two  gentlemen  of  the  court. 
As  they  were  riding  gently,  in  this  manner,  up  the  hill  of  Ludgate, 
towards  St  Paul's,  the  Earl  observed  that  the  King  stopped  short,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  a  certain  casement  on  the  right  hand  side  of  the  way. 
The  gentlemen,  turning  their  heads  in  the  same  direction,  immediately 
beheld  a  young  and  beautiful  woman,  in  a  very  rich  and  fanciful  dress, 
and  worthy  indeed  of  the  admiration  of  the  monarch  ;  who,  with  sheer 
delight,  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot.  The  lady,  for  a  while,  did  not 
observe  this  stoppage,  so  that  the  company  of  courtiers  had  full  time 
to  observe  her  countenance  and  dress.  She  wore  upon  her  head  a 
imall  cap  of  black  velvet,  which  fitted  very  close,  and  came  down  with 
a  point  upon  her  forehead,  where,  at  the  pe.ik  of  the  velvet,  there  hung 
a  very  large  pearl.  Her  hair,  which  was  of  an  auburn  colour  and  very 
abundant,  fell  down  on  either  side  of  her  face  in  large  ringlets  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  and  clustered  daintily  about  her  fair 
neck  and  bosom,  several  of  the  locks,  moreover,  being  bound  together 
here  and  there  by  clusters  of  fine  pearls.  As  for  her  boddice  it  was  of 
white  silk,  with  a  goodly  brooch  of  emeralds  in  the  shape  of  strawberry 
leaves,  which  were  held  together  by  stalks  of  gold.  Her  sleeves,  whiclx 
were  very  wide,  and  hung  loose  from  the  elbow,  were  of  the  same  silk  ; 
but  there  was  a  short  under-sleeve  of  peach-blossom  satin,  that 
fastened  with  clasps  of  emerald  about  the  mid-arm.  Her  bracelets 
were  ornamented  with  the  same  gem  ;  but  the  bands  were  of  gold,  as 
well  as  the  girdle  that  encircled  her  waist.  Thus  much  the  company 
could  perceive,  as  she  leaned  upon  the  edge  of  the  window  with  one 
delicate  hand  :  at  last— for  in  the  meanwhile  she  had  been  steadfastly 
looking  abroad,  as  in  a  reverie — she  recollected  herself,  and,  observing 
that  she  was  gazed  at,  immediately  withdrew. 

The  King  watched  a  minute  or  two  at  the  window,  after  she  was 
gone,  like  a  man  in  a  dream  ;  and  then,  turning  round  to  Rochester, 
inquired  if  he  knew  anything  of  the  lady  he  had  seen.  The  Earl 
replied  instantly  that  he  knew  nothing  of  her,  except  she  was  the 
loveliest  cre.ture  that  had  ever  feasted  his  eyes  ;  whereupon  the  King 
commanded  him  to  remain  behind,  and  learn  as  many  particulars  as 
he  could.  The  King,  with  the  gentlemen,  then  rode  on  very  thought- 
fully into  the  city,  where  he  transacted  what  he  had  to  do,  and  then 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  LUDGATE.  I63 

returned  with  the  same  company  by  Cheapside,  where  they  encountered 
the  Earl. 

As  soon  as  the  King  saw  Rochester,  he  asked  eagerly,  "  What  rfws?* 
Whereupon  the  latter  acquainted  him  with  all  he  knew.  "As  for  her 
name,"  he  said,  "  she  is  called  Alice,  but  her  surname  is  swallowed  up 
in  that  of  The  Fair  Maid  of  Lud:4ate — for  that  is  her  only  title  in  these 
parts.  She  is  an  only  child,  and  her  father  is  a  rich  jew  eller  ;  and  so 
in  faith  was  her  mother  likewise,  to  judge  by  this  splendid  sample  of 
their  workmanship." 

"  Verily  I  think  so  too,"  returned  the  monarch  ;  "  she  must  come 
to  Court,"  and  with  that  they  began  to  concert  together  how  to  pro- 
secute that  design. 

And  doubtless  the  Fair  Maid  of  Ludgate  would  have  been  ensnared 
by  tiie  devices  of  that  profligate  courtier,  but  for  an  event  that  turned 
all  thou:^hts  of  intrigue  and  human  pleasure  into  utter  despondency 
and  affright.  For  now  broke  out  that  dreadful  pestilence  which  soon 
raged  so  awfully  throughout  the  great  city,  the  mortality  increasing 
from  hundreds  to  thousands  of  deaths  in  a  single  week.  At  the  first 
ravai;es  of  the  infection,  a  vast  number  of  families  deserted  their 
houses,  and  fled  into  ihe  country  ;  the  remainder  enclosing  themselves 
as  ri:_;idly  within  their  own  dwellings,  as  if  they  had  been  separately 
besieged  by  some  invisible  foe.  In  the  meantime,  the  pestilence 
increased  in  fury,  spreading  from  house  to  hi  use,  and  from  street  to 
street,  till  whole  parishes  were  subjected  to  its  rage.  At  this  point,  the 
father  of  Alice  fell  suddenly  ill,  though  not  of  the  pest  ;  however,  the 
terrified  domestics  could  not  be  persuaded  otherwise  than  that  he  was 
smitten  by  the  plague,  and  accordingly  they  all  ran  off  together,  leaving 
him  to  the  sole  care  of  his  afflicted  child. 

On  the  morning  after  this  desertion,  as  she  sat  weeping  at  the  bed- 
side of  her  father,  the  Fair  Maid  heard  a  great  noise  of  voices  in  the 
street  ;  wherefore,  looking  forth  at  the  front  casement,  she  saw  a 
number  of  youths,  with  horses  ready  saddled  and  bridled,  standing 
about  the  door.  As  soon  as  she  showed  herself  at  the  window  they  all 
began  to  call  out  together,  beseeching  her  to  come  down,  and  fly  with 
them  from  the  city  of  death  ;  which  touched  the  heart  of  Alice  very 
much  :  after  thanking  tlitm,  therefore,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  she 
pointed  inwards,  and  told  them  that  her  father  was  unable  to  rise  from 
his  bed. 

"Then  there  is  no  help  for  him,"  cried  Hugh  Percy.  "God  receive 
his  soul !  The  plague  is  striding  hither  very  fast.  I  have  seen  the 
red  crosses  in  Cheapside.  Pray  come  down,  therefore,  unto  us,  dearest 
Alice,  for  we  will  wait  on  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

The  sorrowful  Alice  wept  abundantly  at  this  speech,  and  it  was  some 
minutes  before  she  could  make  any  answer. 

"  Hugh  Percy,"  she  said  at  last,  "  if  it  be  as  you  say,  the  will  of  God 
-be  done  ;  but  1  will  never  depart  from  the  help  of  my  dear  father;" 
and  with  that,  waving  her  hand  to  them  as  a  last  farewell,  she  closed 
the  casement,  and  returned  to  the  sick  chamber. 

On  the  morrow  the  gentle  youths  came  again  to  the  house  on  the 
same  errand,  but  they  were  fewer  than  before.  They  moved  Alice  by 
»heir  outcries  to  come  at  last  to  the  window,  who  replied  in  the  sanri 


764  THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  LUDGATS, 

way  to  their  entreaties,  notwithstanding  the  fond  youths  continued  M 
use  their  arguments,  with  many  prayers  to  her  to  come  down,  but  she 
remained  constant  in  her  denial  ;  at  length,  missing  some  of  the  num- 
ber, she  inquired  for  Hugh  Percy,  and  they  answered  dejectedly,  that 
he  had  sickened  of  the  pla;j;ue  that  very  morn. 

"  Alas  !  gentle  kind  friends,"  she  cried,  "  let  this  be  your  warning, 
and  depart  hence  in  good  time.  It  will  make  me  miserable  for  ever 
to  be  answerable  for  your  mischances  ;  as  for  myself,  I  am  resi'-;ned 
entirely  to  the  dispensation  of  God."  And  with  these  words  she  closed 
the  window,  and  the  melancholy  youths  went  away  slowly,  except  one, 
who  had  neither  brought  any  horse  with  him,  nor  joined  in  the  supjjli- 
cations  of  the  rest.  The  disconsolate  Alice,  coming  afterwards  to  the 
window  for  air,  beheld  him  thus  standing  with  his  arms  folded  against 
the  door. 

"  How  is  this,  Ralph  Seaton,  that  you  still  linger  about  this  melan- 
choly place  ?" 

"  Gentle  Alice,"  returned  Seaton,  "  I  have  not  come  hither  like  the 
others,  to  bid  you  fly  away  from  hence ;  neither  must  you  bid  me 
depart  against  my  will." 

"  Ralph  Seaton,  my  heart  is  brimful  of  thanks  to  you  for  this  ten- 
derness towards  me  ;  but  you  have  a  mother  and  sister  for  your  care.* 

''They  are  safe,  Alice,  and  far  from  this  horrible  place." 

"Would  to  God  you  were  with  them  !  dear  Ralph  Seaton,  begone; 
and  the  love  you  bear  towards  me  set  only  at  a  distance  in  your  pray- 
ers. I  wish  you  a  thousand  farewells,  in  one  word — but  pray  begone." 
And  with  that,  turning  away,  with  one  hand  over  her  eyes,  she  closed 
the  casement  with  the  other,  as  if  for  ever  and  ever. 

The  next  morning  the  young  men  came  for  the  third  time  to  the 
house,  and  there  was  a  red  cross  but  a  few  doors  off.  The  youths  were 
now  but  three  or  four  in  number,  several  having  betaken  themselves 
to  the  country  in  despair,  and  others  had  been  breathed  upon  by  the 
life-wasting  pestilence.  It  was  a  long  while  before  Alice  came  to  the 
window,  so  that  their  hearts  began  to  sink  with  dread,  for  they  made 
sure  that  she  was  taken  ill.  However,  she  came  forth  to  them  at  last, 
in  extreme  distress,  to  see  them  so  wilful  for  her  sake. 

"  For  the  dear  love  of  God  ! "  she  cried,  "  do  not  come  thus  any  more, 
unless  you  would  break  my  heart  !  Lo  !  the  dreadful  sii,'nal  of  death 
is  at  hand,  and  to-morrow  it  may  be  set  upon  this  very  door.  Do  not 
cause  the  curses  of  your  friends  and  parents  to  be  heaped  hereafter  on 
my  miserable  head.  If  you  have  any  pity  for  me  in  your  hearts,  pray 
let  this  be  the  uttermost  farewell  between  us." 

At  these  words,  the  sad  youths  began  to  shed  tears  ;  and  some  of 
them,  with  a  broken  voice,  be;,'ged  of  her  to  bestow  on  them  some 
tokens  for  a  remembrance.  Thereupon  she  went  for  her  bracelets, 
and  after  kissing  them,  gave  them  between  two  of  the  young  men.  To 
a  third  she  cast  her  glove,  but  to  Seaton  she  dropped  a  ring,  which 
she  had  pressed  sundry  times  to  her  lips. 

The  day  after  the  final  departure  of  the  young  men,  the  ominous  red 
cross  was  marked  on  the  jeweller's  door ;  for,  as  he  was  known  to  be 
ill,  it  was  supposed,  of  course,  that  his  malady  was  the  plague.  In 
consequence  the  door  was  rigorously  nailed  up,  so  that  no  one  could 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OP  LUDGATE.  765 

pass  in  or  out,  and  moreover  there  were  watchmen  appointed  for  the 
same  purpose  of  blockide.  It  was  the  duty  of  these  atfendnnts  to  see 
that  the  people  within  the  suspected  houses  were  duly  supplied  with 
provision  :  whereas,  by  the  negligence  of  these  hard-henrted  men,  it 
happened  frequently  that  the  persons  confined  within  perished  of  ab- 
solute want  Thus  it  befel,  after  some  days,  that  Alice  saw  her  fatiier 
relapsing  again,  for  the  lack  of  mere  necessaries  to  sup ;)ort  him  in  his 
weakness,  his  disorder  having  considerably  abated.  In  this  extremity, 
seeing  a  solitary  man  in  the  street,  she  stretched  out  her  arms  towards 
him,  and  besought  him  for  the  love  of  God  to  bring  a  httle  food  ;  but 
tlie  bewildered  man,  instead  of  understanding,  bade  her  "flee  from 
the  wrath  to  come,"  and  with  sundry  leaps  and  frantic  gestures,  went 
capering  on  his  way. 

Her  heart  at  this  disappointment  was  ready  to  burst  with  despair; 
but,  turning  her  eyes  towards  the  opposite  side,  she  perceived  another 
man  coming  down  the  street,  with  a  pitcher  and  a  small  loaf.  As  soon 
as  he  came  under  the  window,  she  made  the  same  prayer  to  him  as  to 
the  former,  beg:-;ing  him  for  charity,  and  the  sake  of  her  dear  father, 
to  allow  him  but  a  sup  of  the  water  and  a  small  morsel  of  the, bread. 

'•  It  is  for  that  purpose,"  said  the  other,  "  that  I  am  come."  And  as  he 
looked  upward  she  discovered  that  it  "as  Seaton,  who  had  brought 
this  very  timely  supply.  "  You  may  eat  and  drink  of  these,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  without  any  suspicion,  for  they  come  from  a  place  many  miles 
hence,  where  the  infection  is  yet  unknown." 

The  heart  of  Alice  was  too  full  to  let  her  reply,  but  she  ran  f  rth- 
with,  and  fetched  a  cord,  to  draw  up  the  loaf  and  the  pitcher  withal, 
the  last  being  filled  with  good  wine.  When  her  father  had  finished 
his  repast,  which  revived  him  very  much,  she  returned  with  the  pitcher, 
and  let  it  down  by  the  cord  to  Seaton,  who  perceived  something  glit- 
tering within  the  vessel. 

"  Ralph  Seaton,"  she  said,  "  wear  that  jewel  for  my  sake.  The 
blessing  of  God  be  ever  with  you  in  return  for  this  precious  deed  !  but 
I  conjure  you,  by  the  Holy  Trinity,  do  not  come  hither  again." 

The  generous  Seaton  with  great  j :)y  placed  the  brooch  within  his 
bosom,  and  with  a  signal  of  farew  ell  to  Alice,  departed  without  another 
word.  And  now  her  heart  began  to  sink  again  to  think  of  the  morrow, 
when  assuredly  her  beloved  parent  would  be  reduced  to  the  like 
extremity  ;  for  during  all  this  time  the  negligent  watchmen  had  never 
come  within  sight  of  the  house.  All  the  night  hours  she  spent,  there- 
fore, in  anguish  and  dread,  which  were  still  more  aggravated  by  the 
dismal  rumbling  of  the  carts,  that  at  midnight  were  used  to  come 
about  for  the  corpses  of  the  dead. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  one  of  these  coarse  slovenly  hearses,  with 
a  cargo  of  dead  bodies,  passed  tluough  the  street,  attended  by  a  bell- 
man and  some  porters,  with  flaming  torches,  unto  whom  the  miserable 
Alice  called  out  with  a  lamentable  voice.  The  men,  at  her  summons, 
came  under  the  window  with  the  cart,  expecting  some  dead  body  to 
be  cast  out  to  them,  the  mortality  admitting  of  no  more  decent  rites  ; 
but  when  they  heard  what  she  wanted,  they  replied  sullenly,  that  they 
had  business  enough  of  their  own  to  convey  away  all  the  carrion, — and 
so  passed  on  with  their  horrible  chimes. 


766  THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  LUDGATE. 

The  morning  was  spent  in  the  same  alternations  of  fruitless  hop< 
and  despair,  till  towards  noon,  when  Seaton  came  again  with  the 
pitcher  and  a  sm:ill  basket,  which  cont, lined  some  cold  baked  meat, 
and  other  eatables,  that  he  had  jirocured  with  infinite  pains  from  a 
country  place,  at  a  considerable  distance.  The  fair  maiden  drew  up 
these  supplies  with  great  eagerness,  her  father  be.i^inning  now  to  have 
that  appetite  which  is  one  of  the  first  symptoms  of  recovery  from  any 
sickness  ;  accordingly  he  fed  upon  the  victuals  with. great  relish.  The 
gentle  Alice,  in  the  meanwhile,  lowered  down  the  empty  basket  and 
the  pitcher  to  Seaton,  and  then  again  besought  him  not  to  expose 
himself  to  such  risks  by  coming  into  the  city  ;  to  which  he  made  no 
answer  but  by  pressing  his  hands  against  his  bosom,  as  if  to  express 
that  such  errands  gratified  his  heart  ;  whereupon  she  made  fresh  signs 
to  s.iy  farewell,  and  he  departed. 

In  this  manner  several  weeks  passed  away,  the  gallant  youth  never 
failing  to  come  day  after  day  with  fresh  provision,  till  at  last  the  old 
jeweller  was  able  to  sit  up.  The  gracious  Providence  preserved  them 
all,  in  the  meantime,  from  any  attack  of  the  pestilence,  though  many 
pei'sons  died  every  day,  on  both  sides  of  the  street,  the  distemper  being 
^t  its  worst  pitch.  Thus  the  houses  became  desolate,  and  the  streets 
silent,  and  beginning  to  look  green  even,  by  the  springing  up  of  grass 
between  the  untrodden  stones. 

The  prison-house  of  the  Fair  Maid  of  Ludgate  and  her  father  soon 
became,  therefore,  very  irksome,  and  especially  when  the  latter  got 
well  enough  to  stir  about,  and  to  behold  through  the  window  these 
symi  toms  of  the  public  calamity,  which  filled  him  with  more  anxiety 
than  he  had  ever  felt,  on  account  of  his  dear  child,  whose  life  was  not 
secure,  any  more  than  his  own,  for  a  single  hour.  His  alarm  and 
disquiet  on  this  account  threatening  to  bring  on  a  relapse  of  his 
malady,  the  tender  girl  found  but  little  happiness  in  his  recovery, 
which  seemed  thus  to  have  been  altogether  in  vain.  And  truly,  it 
was  a  sufficient  grief  for  any  one  to  be  in  the  centre,  though  unhurt, 
of  such  a  horrible  devastation  ;  whereof  none  could  guess  at  the 
continuance,  whether  it  would  cease  of  its  own  accord,  or  rage  on  till 
there  were  no  more  victims  to  be  destroyed. 

Tlie  plague,  however,  abated  towards  the  close  of  the  year,  when 
the  King,  who  had  removed  with  his  Court  to  Windsor  in  the  midst 
of  tlie  alarm,  felt  disposed  one  day  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  metropolis. 
Accordingly,  mounted  on  horseback,  he  rode  into  town,  accompanied 
by  the  Lord  Rochester,  and  the  same  gentlemen  who  had  been  his 
attendants  on  the  former  occasion. 

The  monarch  was  naturally  much  shocked  at  the  desolate  aspect  of 
the  place,  which,  from  a  great  and  populous  city,  had  become  almost 
a  desert  ;  the  Sdund  of  the  horses'  hoofs  echoing  dismally  throughout 
tl;e  solitary  streets,  but  bringing  very  {^^^  persons  to  look  out  at  the 
windows,  and  of  those,  the  chief  part  were  more  like  lean  ghastly 
hosts  than  human  living  creatures.  In  consequence  he  rode  along 
n  a  very  melancholy  mood  of  mind,  which  the  pleasant  Earl  eri- 
ileavoured  to  enliven  by  various  witty  jests,  but  without  any  effect, 
for  they  sounded  hollow  and  untimely,  even  in  his  own  ear. 

At  last,  arriving  at  the  Hill  of  Ludgate,  and  the  image  of  the  Fau 


f, 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  LUDGATE.  76) 

Maic  coming  to  his  remembrance,  the  King  looked  towards  the  house, 
and  lo  !  there  frowned  the  horrible  red  cross,  which  was  still  distinct 
ui.on  the  door.  Immediately  he  [lointed  out  this  deadly  signal  to 
Roi  hester,  who  had  already  noticed  it,  and  then  both  shook  their 
heads,  meaning  to  say  that  she  was  dead  ;  however,  to  make  certain, 
the  Earl  alighted',  and  knocked  with  all  his  might  at  the  door.  But 
there  was  no  answer,  nor  any  appearance  of  a  face  at  any  window. 
Thereupon,  with  very  heavy  hearts,  they  rode  onwards  for  a  few  doors 
farther,  where  there  was  a  young  man,  like  a  spectre,  sitting  at  an 
open  casement,  with  a  large  book  like  a  Bible  in  his  hands.  The 
King,  who  spied  him  first,  asked  of  him  very  eagerly  whether  the 
Fair  Maid  of  L"dgate  was  alive  or  dead,  but  the  ghostly  man  could 
tell  nothitig  of  the  matter,  except  that  the  jeweller  had  been  the  very 
first  person  to  be  seized  by  the  plague  in  their  quarter.  Thereupor 
the  King  made  up  his  mind  that  the  fair  Alice  had  perished  amongst 
the  many  thousand  victims  of  the  pest,  and  with  a  very  sorrowful 
visage  he  rode  on  through  the  city,  where  he  spent  some  hours  in 
noticing  the  deplorable  consequences  of  that  visitation. 

Afterwards,  he  returned  with  his  company  by  the  same  way,  and 
when  they  came  towards  the  jeweller's  house  in  Ludgate,  there  were 
several  young  men  standing  about  the  door.  They  had  been  knock- 
ing to  obtain  tidings  of  the  Fair  Maid,  but  without  any  better  success 
than  before  ;  so  that,  getting  very  impatient,  they  began,  as  the  King 
came  up,  to  cast  stones  through  the  windows.  The  Earl  of  Rochester 
seeing  them  at  this  vain  work,  called  out  as  he  passed, 

"  Gentlemen,  you  are  wasting  your  labour.  The  divinity  of  your 
city  is  dead  ;  as  you  may  know,  by  asking  of  the  living  skeleton  at 
yonder  casement." 

At  these  words,  the  young  men  supposing  that  the  Earl  had  autho- 
rity for  what  he  said,  desisted  from  their  attempts,  and  the  two 
companies  went  each  their  several  ways  ;  the  King  with  his  attend- 
ants to  Windsor,  and  the  sad  youths  to  their  homes,  with  grief  on 
all  their  faces,  and  very  aching  hearts,  through  sorrow  for  the  Fair 
Maid  of  Ludgate. 

As  for  the  g.dlant  Ralph  Seaton,  he  had  ceased  to  come  beneath 
the  window  for  some  time  before,  since  there  was  no  longer  any  one 
living  within  the  house  to  drink  fn)m  his  pitcher,  or  to  eat  out  of  his 
basket.  Notwithstanding,  he  continued  now  and  then  to  bring  a  few 
pieces  of  game,  and  sometimes  a  flask  also,  to  the  father  of  Alice,  who 
lived  under  the  same  roof;  for  the  elder  Seaton  was  a  good  yeoman 
of  Kent,  and  thitlier  Ralph  had  conveyed  the  old  citizen  as  soon  as 
he  was  well  enough  to  be  removed.  The  old  jeweller  outlived  the 
pl:i;^ue  by  a  score  of  years  ;  but  the  Fair  Maid  of  Ludgate,  who  had 
survived  the  pestilence,  was  carried  off  shortly  afterwards  by  marriage, 
the  title  wiiich  had  belonged  to  her  in  the  city  being  resolved  into 
'iiat  of  the  Dame  Alice  Seatoo. 


jet 


THE  THREE  BROTHERS. 

ABEND  ALT  of  Bagdad  had  three  sons  ;  the  two  eldest,  very  taB 
and  proper  youtlis  for  their  years  ;  but  the  youngest,  onaccounl 
of  the  dvv.irfishness  of  his  stature,  was  called  little  Agib.  He  had, 
notwithstanding,  a  wit  and  shrewdness  very  unusual  to  any,  especially 
of  his  childisli  age  ;  whereas  his  brothers  were  dull  and  slow  of  intel- 
lect, to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

Now  Abeci  '"",  though  he  had  money,  was  not  rich  enough  to  leave 
behind  him  a  competence  for  each  of  his  sons  ;  wherefore  he  thought 
it  best  to  teach  them  in  the  first  instance  to  scrape  together  as  much 
as  they  could  ;  accordinLjly,  calling  them  all  to  him,  on  some  occasion, 
he  present!  d  to  each  a  small  canvas  purse,  with  a  sequin  in  it,  by  way 
of  handsel,  and  then  spoke  to  them  to  this  effect  : 

"  Behold  !  here  is  a  money-bag  a-piece,  with  a  single  sequin,  for  you 
must  furnish  the  rest  by  your  own  industry.  1  shall  require  every  now 
and  then  to  look  into  your  purses,  in  order  to  see  what  you  have 
added  ;  but  to  that  end  you  shall  not  have  any  recourse  to  theft,  o, 
violent  robbery,  for  money  is  often  purchased  by  those  methods  at  to^, 
dear  a  rate  ;  whereas  the  more  you  can  obtain  by  any  subtle  strata 
gems,  or  smart  strokes  of  policy,  the  gre.iter  will  be  my  opinion  of  yoi: 
hopefulness  and  abilities." 

The  three  brethren  accepted  of  the  purses  with  great  goodwill,  and 
immediately  began  to  think  over  various  plans  of  getting  money  ;  so 
quickly  does  the  desire  of  riches  take  root  m  the  human  bosom.  The 
two  elder  ones,  however,  beat  about  their  wits  to  no  purpose,  for  they 
could  not  start  a  single  invention,  excei;t  of  bei:ging  alms,  which  they 
would  not  descend  to  ;  whereas  the  little  Agib  added  another  piece  of 
money  to  his  sequin  before  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

It  happened  that  there  lived  at  some  distance  from  Abendali  an  old 
Jady,  who  was  bedridden,  but  very  rich,  and  a  relation  of  the  former, 
though  at  some  degrees  removed.  As  she  was  thus  lying  in  her  cham- 
ber, she  heard  the  door  open,  and  Agib  came  in,  but  he  was  so  little 
th.it  he  could  not  look  upon  the  bed.  The  lady  asking  who  it  was,  he 
answered  and  said  ''  My  name  is  little  Ai^ib,  and  1  am  sent  here  by 
mv  father,  your  kinsman,  who  is  called  Abendali  ;  for  he  desires  to 
know  how  you  are,  and  to  wish  you  a  thousand  years." 

The  old  lady  wondered  very  much  that  Abendali  was  so  much  con- 
cerned for  her,  since  they  had  not  held  any  correspondence  together 
for  a  long  while  ;  ho. \ ever,  she  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  atten- 
tion, and  gave  a  small  liece  of  money  to  Agib,  desiring  the  si  ives 
moreover  tc  Si.ng  him  as  many  sweetmeats  as  he  liked.  The  brethren 
showing  theii  pift^ses  at  night  to  their  father,  the  two  eldest  had  only 
their  sequin  a-piece,  whereas  little  Agib  had  thus  added  already  to  his 
store. 

On  the  following  day,  little  Agib  paid  another  visit  to  the  sic  k  lady, 
and  was  as  well  treati-d  as  before.  He  repeated  the  same  compliments 
very  many  times  afterwards,  adding  continually  fresh  moneys  to  his 
purse  ;  at  last,  Abendali,  passing  by  chance  in  the  same  quarter  of  tlve 


THE  THREE  BROTHERS.  769 

city,  took  It  into  his  head  to  inquire  for  his  kinswon^an  ;  and  when 

he  entered  her  chamber,  lo  !  there  sat  little  Agib  behind  the  door.  As 
soon  ns  he  had  delivered  his  compliments,  which  the  lady  received 
very  graciously,  she  pointed  to  little  Agib,  and  said  she  had  taken  it  very 
kindly  that  the  child  had  been  sent  so  often  to  ask  after  her  htalth. 

"  Madam,"  said  Abendali,  who  laughed  all  the  uhile,  "the  little  liar 
has  not  told  you  one  word  of  truth.  I  know  well  enough  why  he  came 
here,  which  was  on  none  of  my  errands." 

The  little  Agib  prudently  held  his  peace  till  his  father  was  gone, 
whereupon  the  old  lady  asked  him  how  he  could  be  so  wicked  as  to 
deceive  her  with  such  multiplied  lies. 

"Alas!"  said  Agib,  pretending  to  whimper  very  much,  "  I  hope 
God  will  not  punish  me  with  a  sore  tongue  for  such  sinning.  It  is 
true,  as  my  father  says,  that  he  never  commanded  me  to  come  ;  but 
I  was  so  scandalised  at  his  shocking  neglect,  that  I  could  not  help 
calling  upon  you  of  my  own  accord,  and  making  up  those  messages 
in  his  name." 

,  The  old  lady  hereupon  was  so  much  touched  with  the  seeming  piety 
and  tenderness  of  little  Agib,  that  she  bade  him  climb  upon  the  bed 
and  kiss  her,  which  he  performed  ;  and  because  he  had  come  so  disinter- 
estedly, and  not,  she  believed,  for  the  trifling  pieces  of  money,  she  gave 
him  a  coin  of  more  value,  to  make  amends,  as  she  said,  for  Abendali's 
injurious  suspicion. 

The  same  night,  when  he  looked  in  Agib's  purse,  the  old  man  saw 
that  he  had  three  pieces  more;  at  which  he  nodded,  as  if  to  say  I 
know  where  these  came  from  :  whereupon  Agib,  being  concerned  for 
the  honour  of  his  ingenuity,  spoke  up  to  his  father.  "  It  is  not,"  said 
he,  "as  you  suppose  ;  these  two  pieces  I  obtained  elsewhere  than  at 
the  place  you  are  thinking  of;"  and  with  that  he  appealed  to  his 
brethren. 

"  It  is  truth,"  said  the  eldest,  "  what  he  speaks.  Observing  that  he 
had  every  night  a  fresh  piece^  of  money,  whereas  we  that  are  his 
elders  could  get  nothing  at  all,  myself  and  my  brother  besought  of 
little  Agib  to  acquaint  us  with  his  secret  for  making  gold  and 
silver;  but  he  would  not  part  with  it,  unless  we  gave  him  our  two 
pieces,  and  thus  we  have  no  money  whatever." 

With  that  the  elder  brothers  turned  both  at  once  on  little  Agib, 
calling  him  a  liar  and  a  cheat  ;  for  that,  when  they  called  on  the  old 
lady,  instead  of  giving  them  a  piece  of  money  or  two,  as  he  had 
reported,  she  said  that  she  knew  what  they  came  for,  and  withal  bade 
them  to  be  thrust  forth  from  the  chamber. 

During  this  relation,  Abendali  could  not  help  laughing  secretly  at 
the  cunning  of  little  Agib,  who  had  thus  added  his  brothers'  money 
to  his  own  ;  however,  he  quieted  the  two  elder  ones,  by  declaring  that 
Agib  had  told  them  the  truth. 

About  a  month  after  this  time,  the  Angel  of  Death  called  upon 
Abendali,  and  touching  him  on  the  right  side,  bade  him  prepare  to 
die.  Accordingly  the  old  man  sent  for  his  sons  to  his  bedside,  and 
after  embracing  them  tenderly  one  by  one,  spoke  as  follows  : — 

"  My  dear  children,  you  will  find  all  the  money  that  I  have  in  the 
world  in  a  great  earthen  pot,  which  stands  in  a  hole  of  the  wal^ 

3C 


770  TNE  THREE  BROTHERS. 

behind  the  head  of  my  couch.  As  for  its  disposal  my  will  is  this,  that 
it  shall  be  equally  divided  between  you  two,  who  are  the  eldest.  As 
for  little  Agib,  he  has  wit  enough  to  provide  for  himself,  and  must 
shift  as  he  can." 

With  these  words  he  died,  and  the  sons  turned  his  face  towards  the 
east, — the  two  eldest  setting  themselves  immediately  to  divide  the 
money  between  them,  in  order  to  divert  their  grief ;  whereas  little 
Agib,  having  nothing  to  do,  shed  a  great  many  tears.  However,  it 
h.ippened  so,  that  the  soul  of  the  infirm  kinswoman  of  Abendali  took 
flight  to  God  the  same  evening,  and  she  left  by  her  will  a  sum  of 
muney,  that  m  ide  Agib  equal  in  means  with  his  brethren  ;  whereupon, 
having  something  likewise  to  occupy  his  thoughts,  his  eyes  were  soon 
as  dry  as  the  others. 

After  a  decent  season,  the  three  brothers,  desiring  a  change  of 
scene,  and  to  see  a  little  of  the  world,  determined  to  travel  :  accord- 
ingly, bestowing  their  money  about  their  persons,  they  set  forth  in 
company,  intending  to  go  towards  Damascus  ;  but,  before  they  had 
gone  very  far,  they  were  set  upon  by  a  band  of  thieves,  who  took 
away  all  they  had.  The  two  elder  ones,  at  this  mischance,  were  very 
much  cast  down  ;  but  little  Agib,  who  was  no  worse  off  than  he  had 
been  left  by  his  father,  kept  up  his  heart.  At  last  they  came  to  a 
town,  where  Agib,  who  never  had  any  mistrust  of  his  wit,  took  care  to 
hire  a  small  house  without  any  delay ;  but  his  brethren  were  very 
much  dismayed  at  so  rash  an  act,  for  they  knew  that  there  was  not  a 
coin  amongst  them  all.  Notwithstanding,  Agib,  by  several  dexterous 
turns,  made  shift  to  provide  something  every  day  to  eat  and  drink, 
which  he  shared  generously  with  the  others,  exacting  from  them  only 
a  promise  that  they  would  help  him,  whenever  they  could. 

At  last  even  the  inventions  of  little  Agib  began  to  fail,  and  he  was 
walking  through  the  streets  in  a  very  melancholy  manner,  when  he 
espied  an  old  woman  making  over  towards  an  artificer's  with  a  brazen 
pan  in  her  arms.  A  thought  immediately  came  into  his  head  :  there- 
fore, stopping  the  woman  before  she  could  step  into  the  shop,  and 
drawing  her  a  little  way  apart,  he  spoke  thus  :  "  I  doubt  not,  my 
good  mother,  that  you  were  going  to  the  brazier,  to  have  that  vessel 
repaired,  and  I  should  be  loth  to  stop  the  bread  from  coming  to  any 
honest  man's  mouth.  Notwithstanding,  I  have  not  eaten  for  three 
days  ;"  here  the  little  hypocrite  began  to  shed  tears  ;  "  and  as  I  know 
something  of  the  craft,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  do  such  a  small  job  for 
you,  it  will  be  a  great  charity." 

The  old  woman,  in  reply,  told  him  that  she  was  indeed  going  to 
the  braziers  on  such  an  errand,  but  nevertheless,  the  vessel  having  a 
flaw  at  the  bottom,  she  was  very  well  disposed  to  let  him  repair  her 
pan,  as  it  would  be  an  act  of  charity,  and  especially  as  he  would  no 
doubt  mend  it  for  half-price.  The  little  Agib  agreed  to  her  terms  ; 
whereupon  leading  her  to  the  door  of  his  house,  he  took  the  pan  from 
her,  and  desired  her  to  call  again  in  a  certain  time. 

The  brethren  wondered  very  much  to  see  Agib  with  such  a  vessel, 
when  they  had  not  provision  to  make  it  of  any  use  ;  but  he  gave  them 
no  hint  of  his  design,  requiring  only  of  them  that  they  would  go 
tbroad,  and  raise  muney  upon  such  parts  of  their  raiment  as  they  could 


THE  THREE  BROTHERS.  77, 

■pare.  The  two  elder  ones,  having  a  great  confidence  in  his  clever- 
ness, did  as  they  were  desired,  but  the  greater  part  of  their  clothes 
having  been  pledged  in  the  same  way,  they  could  borrow  but  two 
pieces  for  their  turbans,  which  were  left  as  security. 

As  soon  as  he  got  the  money,  Agib  ran  off  to  the  brazier,  who  has 
been  mentioned  before,  and  ordered  him  to  repair  the  brass  pan  in  his 
best  manner,  and  without  any  delay,  which  the  man  punctually  ful- 
filled. Thereupon  Agib  made  him  a  present  of  the  two  pieces,  which 
amounted  to  much  more  than  the  usual  charge  for  such  a  job,  and 
made  haste  home  with  the  pan,  where  he  arrived  but  a  breathing  space 
before  the  old  woman  knocked  at  the  door.  She  was  very  much 
pleased  with  the  work,  for  the  pan  had  a  brave  new  bottom,  perfectly 
watertight  and  neatly  set  in  ;  but  the  moderate  charge  that  was 
demanded  by  Agib  delighted  her  still  more,  wherefore  she  began  to 
hobble  off,  with  great  satisfaction  in  her  countenance,  when  he 
beckoned  to  her  to  come  back. 

"  There  is  but  one  thing,"  said  he,  "that  I  request  of  you,  which  is 
this  ;  that  you  will  not  mention  this  matter  to  any  one,  for  otherwise, 
as  I  am  not  a  native  of  the  place,  I  shall  have  all  the  braziers  of  the 
town  about  my  ears." 

The  old  woman  promised  readily  to  observe  his  caution  ;  notwith- 
standing, as  he  had  foreseen,  she  told  the  story  to  every  one  of  her 
neighbours,  and  the  neighbours  gossiped  of  it  to  others,  so  that  the 
fame  of  the  cheap  brazier  travelled  through  the  whole  of  her  quarter. 
Thereupon,  every  person  who  had  a  vessel  of  brass  or  copper,  or  a 
metal  pan  of  any  kind  that  was  unsound,  resolved  to  have  it  mended 
at  so  reasonable  a  rate  ;  and  each  one  intending  to  be  beforehand  with 
the  others,  it  fell  out  that  a  great  mob  came  all  at  once  to  the  door. 

As  soon  as  Agib  heard  the  knocking,  and  the  voices,  and  the 
jangling  of  the  vessels,  for  the  good  people  made  a  pretty  concert 
without,  in  order  to  let  him  know  what  they  wanted,  he  turned  about 
to  his  brothers,  and  said  that  the  time  for  their  usefulness  was 
arrived.  Thereupon  he  opened  the  door,  and  saw  a  great  concourse  of 
people,  who  were  all  talking  together,  and  holding  up  towartls  him  the 
bottoms  of  kettles  and  pans.  Whenever  he  could  make  himself  heard 
through  the  clamour,  he  desired  every  one  to  make  a  private  mark 
of  their  own  upon  the  metal,  which  being  done,  he  took  in  the  articles 
one  by  one,  and  appointed  with  the  owners  to  return  for  them  on  the 
morrow  at  the  same  hour. 

The  thin.t;s  which  had  been  brought  made  a  goodly  heap  in  the 
chamber,  being  piled  up  in  one  corner  to  the  very  top  of  the  room,  a 
sight  that  amused  Agib  and  his  brothers  very  much,  for  the  latter 
made  sure  that  they  were  to  sell  the  whole  of  the  metal,  and  tiien 
make  off  with  the  money,  which  was  quite  contrary  to  the  policy  of 
Agib,  who  remembered  the  injunctions  of  Abendali  as  to  the  danger 
of  such  acts.  However,  there  was  no  time  to  be  wasted,  having  ^uch 
a  quantity  of  work  before  their  eyes  ;  accordinj;ly,  bidding  his  brothers 
perform  after  his  example,  Agib  sat  down  on  the  floor  with  one  of  the 
brazen  vessels  between  his  legs,  and  by  help  of  an  old  knife  and  some 
coarse  sand,  scraped  and  scoured  the  bottom  till  it  looked  very  brigh' 
and  clean.     The  two  eldest  laboured  after  the  same  manner  w  iih 


TT*  THE  THREE  BROTHERS. 

rreat  patience,  and  persevered  so  steadfastly,  that  by  daylight  the 
bottoms  of  the  vessels  were  all  shining  as  brillinntly  as  the  sun, 
••  Now,"  said  Agib,  "  we  may  lie  down  and  rest  awhile,  for  we  have 
done  the  work  of  a  score  of  hands." 

At  the  time  appointed,  which  was  about  noon,  the  people  came  in 
a  crowd,  as  before,  to  fetch  away  their  pans,  every  one  striving  to  be 
first  at  the  door.  In  the  meantime,  Agib  had  the  vessels  heaped  up 
behind  him,  so  as  to  be  conveniently  within  reach  ;  whereupon,  open- 
ing the  door,  and  holding  up  one  of  the  articles  in  his  right  hand,  one 
of  the  crowd  called  out,  "  That  is  my  pan  !  "  Immediately  Agib 
reached  forth  the  vessel  to  the  owner,  and  without  a  word  stretched 
out  his  left  hand  for  the  money,  which  in  every  case  was  a  piece  of 
the  same  amount  that  had  been  paid  by  the  old  woman  ;  and  his  two 
brothers,  who  stood  behind  with  blacked  faces,  to  look  hke  furnace- 
men,  put  all  the  coins  into  a  bag.  In  this  way,  Agib,  as  fast  as  he 
could,  delivered  all  the  things  to  the  people  ;  who,  as  soon  as  they 
saw  the  bright  bottoms  of  their  pots  and  kettles,  were  well  satisfied, 
and  withal  very  much  amazed  to  think  that  so  much  work  had  been 
performed  in  such  a  little  space. 

"  It  is  wonderful !  it  is  wonderful  ! "  they  said  to  each  other  ;  "  he 
must  have  a  hundred  workpeople  in  his  house  ! "  and  with  that  and 
similar  sayings  they  departed  to  their  homes.* 

When  the  last  of  the  potbearers  was  gone  out  of  sight,  Agib  told  his 
brothers  that  it  was  time  for  them  to  leave  the  place  ;  whereupon  the 
duUwitted  pair  began  to  think  of  redeeming  their  turbans,  and  in 
spite  of  the  entreaties  of  Agib,  being  very  obstinate,  as  such  thick- 
skulls  usually  are,  they  went  forth  on  that  errand.  In  the  interval, 
Agib,  who  had  many  misgivings  at  heart,  was  obliged  to  remain  in 
the  house,  so  that  the  event  fell  out  as  unhappily  as  might  have  been 
foretold.  In  a  little  while,  some  of  the  people,  who  had  paid  for  the 
mending  of  their  pans,  found  out  the  trick,  and  these  telling  the 
others  that  were  in  the  same  plight,  they  repaired  suddenly  to  the 
house,  before  Agib  had  time  to  escape,  and  carried  him  into  the  pre- 
sence of  the  Cadi. 

The  furious  people  told  their  story  all  at  once,  as  they  could,  to  the 
judge  ;  and  withal  they  held  up  so  many  shining  pan-bottoms  of  brass 
as  well  as  copper,  that  he  was  quite  dazzled,  and  almost  as  blind  as 
Justice  ought  to  be,  according  to  the  painters.  Many  of  them, 
besides,  to  eke  out  their  speech,  laid  sundry  violent  thumps  upon  the 
twanging  vessels,  so  that  such  an  uproar  had  never  been  heard  before 
in  the  court.  As  for  Agib,  though  he  felt  his  case  to  be  somewhat 
critical,  he  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  oddness  of  the  scene  ;  and 
there  were  others  in  the  hall,  who  laughed  more  violently  than  he. 

It  was  a  common  thing  with  the  Caliph  of  Bagdad  to  go  in  disguise 
through  his  dominions,  as  well  to  overlook  the  administration  of  justice 
in  different  places,  as  for  his  own  private  diversion.  Thus  it  happened 
at  this  moment,  that  the  Caliph  was  standing,  unrecognised,  amongst 
the  spectators  of  the  scene.  He  laughed  very  heartily  at  the  eagerness 
of  the  complainants  and  their  whimsical  concert.  At  last,  sending  his 
royal  signet  to  the  Cadi,  with  a  message  that  it  was  his  pleasure  to  try 
the  cause  himself,  he  went  up  into  the  judge's  seat. 


THE  THREE  BROTHERS.  773 

As  soon  as  the  accusers  perceived  tlie  Caliph,  they  set  up  a  new 
clamour,  and  a  fresh  clatter  of  their  pans,  so  that  he  had  much  ado  to 
preserve  his  gravity  and  his  eyesight.  However,  when  he  had  heard 
enough  to  comprehend  the  matter,  he  commanded  them  to  hold  their 
peace,  and  then  called  upon  Agib  to  say  what  he  could  in  his  defence. 

"  Commander  of  the  Faithful ! "  said  Agib,  "  I  beseech  but  your 
gracious  patience,  and  I  will  answer  all  this  rabble,  and  their  kettles 
to  boot.  Your  majesty  must  know  then,  that  yesterday  morning  these 
people  all  made  even  such  a  tumult  about  my  door  as  you  have  just 
heard.  As  soon  as  ever  I  came  forth,  they  held  up  the  bottoms  of 
their  vessels  one  and  all  towards  me,  as  they  have  just  done  to  your 
majesty  ;  and  if  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  understands  by  that 
action  that  he  is  to  mend  all  the  bottoms  of  their  pans,  I  confess  that 
I  am  worthy  of  the  bastinado." 

The  Caliph  laughed  more  heartily  than  ever  at  this  idea  of  Agib's,  in 
which  he  was  joined  by  all  the  unconcerned  parties  in  the  court, 
whereas  the  panbearers  looked  very  much  disconcerted.  At  last,  one 
of  them,  speaking  in  behalf  of  the  rest,  besought  of  the  Caliph  that  the 
old  woman  might  be  sent  for,  whose  pot  had  been  mended  by  Agib, 
and  accordingly  an  officer  was  despatched  to  bring  her  to  the  court 
As  soon  as  she  came,  the  Cadi  interrogated  her,  by  the  command  of 
the  Caliph,  as  to  her  transaction  with  Agib  ;  whereupon  she  related  the 
whole  affair,  and  proved  that  he  had  undertaken,  by  express  words, 
to  put  a  new  bottom  to  her  pan. 

The  Caliph  was  very  much  vexed  at  this  turn  of  the  case  against 
Agib,  whereas  the  complainants  were  altogether  m  exultation,  and  asked 
eagerly  and  at  once  of  the  old  woman,  whether  her  pan  was  not  merely 
scrubbed  white  at  the  bottom,  and  unserviceable,  like  theirs.  The 
old  woman,  however,  declared  that  it  was  no  such  matter,  but  that  her 
pan  was  quite  watertight,  and  repaired  with  a  new  bottom  in  a  work- 
manlike manner  ;  whereupon  the  vessel  being  examined,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  she  had  told  the  truth. 

The  Caliph,  who  was  overjoyed  at  this  favourable  result,  now  laughed 
again  till  he  was  ready  to  fall  out  of  his  seat.  Whereas,  the  pan- 
bearers  fell  into  a  fresh  fit  of  rage,  shaking  their  clanking  utensils  first 
at  the  old  woman,  and  then  at  Agib,  and  at  last  at  each  other,  every 
one  shifting  the  blame  of  the  failure  from  himself  to  his  neighbour, 
who  had  prevented  the  cause  from  being  properly  heard.  In  the 
meantime,  all  the  braziers  and  metalworkers  of  the  place,  who  had 
heard  of  the  subject  of  the  examination,  thronged  into  the  court,  and 
began  to  treat  with  the  enraged  people  who  had  been  juggled  for  the 
repairs  of  their  pans :  and  these  men  falling  into  dispute  with  each 
other,  there  arose  a  fresh  uproar.  The  Cadi,  therefore,  would  fain 
have  had  them  all  thrust  out  of  the  place,  but  the  Caliph  desired  that 
the  rioters  might  have  their  way  for  a  little  longer,  not  doubting  that 
some  fresh  mirth  would  arise  out  of  the  squabble.  Accordingly,  before 
long,  the  complainants  came  forward  with  a  fresh  accusation  against 
the  artificers,  that  under  pretence  of  examining  the  vessels,  they  had 
thrust  fresh  holes  in  them,  and  withal  they  flourished  the  damaged 
pan  bottoms  once  more  in  the  eyes  of  the  Commander  of  th« 
FaithfuL 


774  THE  THREE  BROTHERS. 

Little  Agib,  in  the  meantime,  enjoyed  this  uproar  in  his  sleeve,  and 
casting  a  sly  glance  or  two  towa'^ds  the  seat  of  justice,  he  soon  per- 
ceived that  it  was  not  more  displeasing  to  the  Caliph.  The  latter, 
after  laughing  a  while  longer,  put  on  a  grave  look  by  force,  and  com- 
manded Agib  to  relate  what  passed  with  the  people,  at  the  delivery  of 
their  wares. 

"  Sire,"  replied  Agib,  "  as  soon  as  I  had  got  all  the  pans  together, 
which  were  thus  forced  as  it  were  upon  me,  I  examined  them  as  nar- 
rowly as  I  could  ;  but  not  being  a  brazier,  nor  knowing  anything  what* 
ever  of  that  trade,  I  could  perceive  only  that  they  wanted  a  little 
scouring,  which  I  performed  by  the  help  of  my  two  brothers.  This 
morning  the  people  came  again  for  their  pots  and  pans,  and  seeing 
that  they  had  only  held  up  the  bottoms  towards  me,  in  like  manner  I 
only  held  up  the  bottoms  towards  them  ;  wherewith  they  were  so  well 
contented,  that  each  gave  me  a  small  piece  of  money,  without  any  de- 
mand on  my  part,  and  they  went  on  their  way.* 

As  soon  as  Agib  had  concluded  these  words,  he  was  silent ;  where- 
upon one  of  the  braziers  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and 
making  his  reverence  before  the  Caliph,  spoke  as  follows  : — 

**  Commander  of  the  Faithful,  what  this  young  man  has  said  is  every 
word  of  it  true.  As  for  any  sort  of  copper  or  brass  work,  he  is  quite 
ignorant  of  the  craft,  for  the  very  morning  before  this,  he  brought  to 
me  a  pan  of  his  own  to  be  repaired.  By  his  desire,  therefore,  I  put  in 
a  bran  new  bottom,  for  which  he  paid  me  very  honestly,  as  well  as 
handsomely,  so  that  I  wish  I  had  many  more  such  liberal  customers. 
As  for  these  foolish  people  that  make  such  a  clatter,  they  are  not 
worthy  to  be  believed  for  an  instant  ;  for  I  leave  it  to  your  Majesty  to 
consider  whether  so  many  bottoms  as  they  speak  of  could  be  put  into 
their  vessels  by  all  the  braziers  in  the  place,  in  the  course  of  a  single 
night.  The  thing  is  impossible  ;  and  besides,  if  it  could  be  done, 
there  is  no  man  alive  that  could  do  such  a  job  conscientious'iy,  'inder 
ten  times  the  price  which  they  confess  to  have  paid  to  him.  I  am  a 
judge,  and  ought  to  know." 

The  Caliph  was  very  much  diverted  with  this  speech  of  the  br/isier, 
which  made  all  the  disconcerted  panbearers  hang  down  their  \ieads. 
He  then  turned  round  to  the  Cadi  and  asked  what  he  thought  of  the 
case  ;  the  latter  having  given  his  answer,  the  crier  was  comma'ided  to 
procure  silence  in  the  court,  and  the  Caliph  stood  up  to  gi/c  judg- 
ment. 

"Your  observation,"  said  he,  turning  towards  the  Cadi,  "is  both 
learned  and  just.  I  am  of  opinion,  likewise,  that  the  holding  up  of 
the  bottoms  of  brazen  pans  is  not  amongst  any  of  the  known  forms  of 
agreement.  Thus  there  was  no  legal  bargain  on  either  side,"—  and  at 
these  words  the  disappointed  people,  raising  up  their  hands  lowards 
the  Prophet  in  appeal  against  the  injustice  of  the  Caliph,  there  arose 
a  new  flashing  of  brass  and  copper  bottoms,  and  a  fresh  clatter  of  all 
the  pans. 

"  Notwithstanding,"  continued  the  Caliph,  "  as  there  seemi  to  have 
been  some  evasion  of  a  secret  understanding  between  the  two  parties, 
vny  decree  therefore  is  this,  that  the  criminal  shall  receive  two  hundred 
■strokes  upon  the  soles  of  his  feet ; "  and  herewith,  the  hands  falling 


THE  THREE  BROTHERS,  f7| 

down  again  with  satisfaction,  there  ensued  a  fresh  clanking  chorus 

throughout  the  hall. 

"  However,"  the  Caliph  went  on  thus,  as  soon  as  there  was  silence 
— "  it  is  necessary  that  justice  on  both  sides  should  be  equal  and  com- 
plete ;  wherefore,  as  the  complainants  did  but  hold  up  their  pans,  and 
then  reckon  that  the  order  for  the  new  bottoms  was  distinct,  so  it  sh>iU 
be  sufficient  for  the  executioner  to  lift  up  his  arms  tv/o  hundred  times, 
and  the  criminal  shall  be  deemed  to  have  suffered  as  many  stripes  of 
the  bastinado." 

At  this  pleasant  decision,  there  was  a  great  shout  of  applause  in  the 
court ;  but  the  discomfited  panbearers  departed  in  great  dudgeon, 
with  more  clangour  than  ever,  and  almost  in  a  temper  to  hang  up 
their  pans,  like  the  kettles  of  the  Turkish  janizaries,  as  the  signals  for 
a  revolt.  ^ 

As  for  Agib,  he  suffered  the  penalty,  according  to  his  sentence  ; 
but  the  Caliph  was  so  much  delighted  with  his  wit  and  address,  that 
before  long  lie  raised  him  to  be  one  of  his  Ministers  of  State.  The 
two  elder  ones,  on  the  contrary,  being  very  dull  and  slow,  howbeit 
very  proper  men,  rose  no  higiier  than  to  be  soldiers  of  the  Body 
Guard.  Thus  the  expectation  of  Abendali  was  fulfilled ;  the  little  Agib^ 
though  last  in  birth  and  least  ia  stature,  becoming  the  foremost  il 
fortune  and  the  highest  ia  4iigni||^  o^  the  Three  Brothers. 


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